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UNIV.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGELES 


UN    MYSTERE 

(A    MYSTERY) 


BY 


HENRY    GREVILLE 


(MME.    DURAND) 


TRANSLATED    BY    HARVEY    C.    ALFORD. 


CHICAGO : 

DONOHUE,  HEXNEBERRY  &  CO., 
1890. 


PRINTED  AND   BOUND   BY 

DONOHUE  &  HENNEBERRY, 

CHICAGO. 


UN  MYSTERE. 

(A   MYSTERY.) 


CHAPTER  I. 

In  the  great  salon  of  the  de  Beaurand  mansion, 
open  for  the  first  time  in  twenty  years,  the  crowd 
had  begun  to  clear  away,  and  there  were  not  many 
groups  left  except  in  the  buffet  to  which  some  friends 
had  fled  to  take  some  refreshments  before  leaving. 
The  women  were  seated  nibbling  fruit  or  a  piece  of 
cake,  the  men  remained  standing;  they  chatted 
principally  upon  the  subject  of  the  marriage.  Re- 
markably beautiful  was  the  bride  under  her  veil  of 
lace  thrown  into  relief  by  her  heavy  black  locks 
which  made  a  magnificent  setting  for  her  beauty. 
Upon  that  all  agreed,  and  the  men  were  bound  to 
admit  her  beauty. 

"I  like  a  less  imposing  style  of  beauty,"  said  a 
ver}7  elegant  young  man,  "  I  would  not  dare  to  take 
a  woman  like  her  to  the  Bouffes.  And  if  one  could 
not  take  one's  wife  to  the  Italian  opera,  then — " 

"  You.  Oh,  you  know  your  tastes.  It  is  one  of 
the  de  Polrey's  that  you  want.  Marry,  my  dear, 
marry,  an4  you'Jl  go  to  the  Bouffes ;  I — I  answer  for 
that,  an4  to  the  Eden,  &pd  J:p  the  $"euilly  fair.  But 
like  that." 

Mme.  de  Beaurand  has  an  excellent  smile,"  sairj 
ft  (Jpwager  of  a  conciliating  temperament, 

3 

2130095 


4  UN    MYSTERE. 

"  Excellent.  She  is  another  woman  when  she 
smiles." 

"And  she  has  smiled  all  day.  I  should  think  her 
face  would  be  sour." 

"  Bah !     Happiness  ! " 

"  Happiness  ?  Not  so  much  as  that.  It  is  not  a 
marriage  of  love,  I  told  you." 

"  And  of  what,  then  ?    She  is  rich — as  rich  as  he." 

"  At  least." 

"JSTo  more  is  it  a  marriage  of  ambition.  He  is  a 
captain  of  dragoons,  is  very  refined,  thirty-two  years 
of  age;  but  then  it  is  not  in  that  that  you  are  inter- 
ested." 

"  It  is  a  marriage  of  friendship,  it  seems,  almost 
of  convenience." 

"  On  which  side  ?  " 

"  On  the  side  of  the  bride,  of  course.  As  for  him, 
he  is  an  amorous  fool.  They  say — I  am  speaking 
only  from  hearsay — they  say  that  Mile.  Estelle 
Brunaire  has  at  last  consented  only  through  kind- 
ness of  heart,  because  she  saw  that  Raymond  was 
losing  flesh  on  account  of  her.  Positively,  he  has 
grown  thin.  You  know  how  that  is  2  " 

At  this  they  laughed,  one  woman  cried  aloud,  one 
man  became  reinstated  upon  that  hazarded  remark, 
and  finally  they  dispersed  amid  hearty  handshaking 
and  phrase  poli. 

In  one  corner  of  the  smoking-room  the  groom 
leaned  upon  the  arm  of  a  fauteil,  talking  in  a  low 
tone  to  Theodore  Benoist,  his  comrade  in  the  line, 
though  some  years  since  retired  to  private  life. 

"  You  are  happy  ? "  said  Theodore. 

"  Happy,  without  doubt,  since  I  hope." 


UN   MYSTERE.  5 

"  For  what  do  you  hope  ? " 

"  To  make  myself  beloved  by  her ;  she  does  not 
love  me." 

"  Oh,  then  you  heard  her  speak  of  you  ?  "  And 
to-day  was  she  not  beautiful — beaming  !  " 

"  Yes,  she  was  beaming  to-day,  because  she  is 
good,  as  good  as  goodness  itself.  But  she  spoke  of 
me,  you  said ;  she  has  much,  oh,  very  much  friend- 
ship for  me,  but  no  love.  Have  you  seen  any- 
thing upon  her  face  resembling  the  impatient  fear 
of  young  brides  ?  You  see,  we  have  been  husband 
and  wife  for  as  much  as  four  hours,  and,  would  you 
believe,  I  have  not  been  able  to  say  a  word  to  her  in 
private — that  I  have  not  even  had  an  opportunity  to 
kiss  her  hand." 

u  In  a  reception  like  this,  you  must  admit,  my  dear 
Raymond,  that  privacy " 

"  Oh,  if  she  only  loved  me  !  I  don't  see  how  she 
can,  but  then  she  will  find  the  means.  You  see,  as 
for  me,  I  adore  her." 

Raymond  passed  his  hand  over  his  forehead, 
effaced  a  wrinkle  and  arose,  smiling. 

"  You  love  her  too  much,"  said  Benoist. 

"  Yes,  I  am  afraid  of  it.  It  is  absolutely  neces- 
sary that  she  love  me.  She  will  love  me,  won't 
she?" 

"  I  hope  so,  and  I  think  so,"  said  his  friend,  with 
a  confident  smile. 

"You  will  remain  till  we  leave?  "We  take  the 
train  at  six  o'clock,  to  dine  at  Beaurand,  we  believe, 
at  seven.  I  would  like  to  bid  you  adieu  at  the  last 
moment." 

"  AE  right    I  will  walk  with  your  aunt.    Mme. 


6  UN    MYS1EKE. 

Montclar  is  adorable  to-day.  She  always  is.  I  don't 
know  a  finer  woman;  but  to-day  her  happiness  has 
made  her  tender." 

"  She  is  happy,  she,  also.  She  likes  Estelle  very 
much.  She  pretends  that  between  them  there  is  a 
surprising  likeness.  I  have  not  yet  seen  it,  but  that 
indicates  nothing.  My  poor  aunt ;  she  loves  me 
because  of  all  the  others — for  my  mother  whom  I 
never  knew,  for  my  father  whom  I  lost  so  suddenly 
twenty  years  ago — 

Raymond  stopped  and  remained  thinking. 

"  Don't  think  of  that,"  said  his  companion,  affec- 
tionately. "  This  day  should  not  be  marred  by  sad 
thoughts." 

"  I  think  of  it  always,"  said  the  young  man,  sadly. 
"  Not  a  day  has  gone  by  since  his  death  but  that  I 
have  seen  the  face  of  my  poor  father — such  as  I  can 
remember.  That  tragical  death  has  left  upon  me  an 
ineffaeable  print." 

"  Be  reasonable  ;  a  hunting  accident  could  come  to 
anyone." 

"Possibly.  However,  the  remembrance  of  that 
catastrophe  does  not  cease  to  haunt  me  a  single 
day." 

"Hold  on,  my  friend,  I  am  going  to  scold  you 
soundly.  See  your  wife  at  the  end  of  the  salon 
rouge,  and  did  you  say,  that  at  the  end  of  three 
hours  you  were  going  to  be  at  home  alone?" 

"You  are  right.  Thanks.  Immediately.  You 
will  await  me  as  it  is  agreed.  I  will  go  and  dress." 

He  arose,  shook  the  hand  of  his  friend,  and  went 
away. 

Theodore  absently  followecj  him  with  his  eye§ 


UN  MYSTERE.  1 

and  saw  him  approach  the  group  where  his  wife 
was  seated.  She  had  removed  her  veil,  her  head 
was  slightly  turned  to  one  side,  her  graceful  form 
was  resting  easily  in  her  dress  of  heavy  gilded 
white  silk,  she  looked  like  an  ancient  portrait.  "Her 
regular  profile,  her  beautiful  black  eyes,  the  sweet- 
ness of  her  face,  the  extraordinary  expression  of 
kindness  from  her  smiling  lips  gave  to  her  a  greater 
charm  than  her  beauty.  In  the  midst  of  the  heavy 
green  foliage,  in  a  frame  of  garlands,  among  the  in- 
numerable white  bouquets  of  every  form  and  aspect, 
the  bride  seemed  to  be  a  young  goddess  surrounded 
with  original  offerings  which  she  welcomed  with 
thanks. 

Eaymond  went  up  to  her  and  spoke  a  few  words 
to  her.  Benoist  did  not  hear  the  words ;  but  the 
attitude  of  his  Mend,  not  less  than  the  manner  in 
which  he  placed  his  hand  upon  the  back  of  his 
wife's  chair,  showed  a  tenderness  so  absolute,  a 
passion  so  absorbing,  that  Theodore  was  surprised 
by  it.  She  answered  her  husband  raising  her  eyes  to 
his.  The  look  was  listless,  the  smile  was  confident, 
a  slight  laugh  showed  the  white  teeth,  and  she 
turned  her  head  away  like  a  child  that  amuses  itself, 
her  whole  being  respired  the  sweet  grace  and  tran- 
quillity of  a  soul  supremely  happy. 

"  I  hope  she  will  love  him,"  thought  Benoist.  "  It 
would  be  terrible  if  these  two  charming  souls  should 
not  understand  each  other." 

They  all  arose,  the  relations  and  friends  stood 
up  and  extended  their  congratulations  and  good 
wishes  to  the  newly  married  couple,  now  standing 
side  by  side.  The  Captain  was  a  head  taller  than 


S  Utt  MYSTERE. 

his  wife,  but  he  was  unusually  tall,  and  alone,  among 
them  all,  Mine.  Montclar  was  as  tall  as  Estelle.  The 
blue  eyes,  the  auburn  hair  and  the  light  moustache 
of  Raymond  made  a  brilliant  contrast  with  the  dark 
beauty  of  his  wife;  but  she  possessed  the  pink 
tinted  cheeks  of  the  blonde,  which  one  sometimes 
finds  with  dark  eyes  and  which  double  the  attraction. 

"Raymond  cannot  see  the  likeness  between  his 
wife  and  his  father's  sister.  I  can  see  it,"  said 
Benoist  to  himself.  "  There  is  a  similarity  of  general 
lines,  a  similar  construction  of  the  head.  Forty 
years  from  now,  Mme.  de  Beaurand  will  be  another 
Mme.  Montclar,  just  as  beautiful  and  probably 
prettier." 

The  guests  dispersed  in  the  salon,  he  stepped 
forward  a  few  steps  and  was  in  speaking  distance. 

"  I  am  going  to  dress,"  said  the  wife,  "  and  you, 
Raymond,  hurry  up." 

Beaurand  bent  over  the  hand  which  his  wife  had 
placed  on  the  fauteil  and  kissed  it,  then,  saluting  the 
people  present,  he  went  out. 

"  And,  as  for  me,"  said  Estelle,  "  I  must  also  get 
ready.  If  we  should  miss  the  train!  On  the  day 
of  the  wedding!  Such  a  thing  was  never  heard  of 
before ! " 

"  There  are  other  trains,"  said  Mme.  Montclar, 
philosophically. 

"  And  our  Yatel  who  should  have  prepared  a 
magnificent  dinner  for  us.  In  the  event  of  his  fail- 
ure there  would  be  despair.  What  a  debut  for  my 
matrimonial  career !  I  must  go.  Adieu." 

She  disappeared  behind  a  portiere  of  tapestry 
that  fell  around  her,  the  folds  of  her  train  following 


UN   MYSTEEE. 

her  in  a  rippling  of  silk  and  lace.  Her  aunt,  after 
having  accompanied  the  last  of  the  guests  to  the 
staircase,  returned  to  Benoist  in  the  middle  of  the 
room. 

"  If  I  trouble  you,  dear  madame,"  said  he,  "  put 
me  in  a  corner  and  think  no  more  of  me.  .Raymond 
has  asked  me  to  remain  until  his  departure — he 
wants  to  shake  my  hand  once  more.  It  is  childish- 
ness ;  but  then  we  are  such  old  friends." 

"  You  do  not  trouble  me,  M.  Benoist,"  said  Mme. 
Montclar,  "I  am  going  to  be  seated  in  the  arm 
chair  with  a  footstool  under  my  feet.  There,  that 
is  well.  Thanks.  For  I  am  a  little  fatigued ;  but  I 
am  also  content,  and  joy  keeps  one  up.  And  then 
I  shall  have  plenty  of  time  in  which  to  rest.  I  will 
not  rejoin  Beaurand  for  a  week." 

"That  is  a  long  time,"  said  Benoist,  smiling, 
"  you  hardly  leave  your  nephew  except  for  manoeu- 
vres. What  a  mother  you  have  been." 

"  It  was  necessary.  The  poor  child.  When  my 
brother  died,  Raymond  was  twelve  years  old. 
What  do  you  suppose  would  become  of  a  child  of 
that  age  if  some  one  did  not  replace  the  parents  that 
he  had  lost  ?  At  last  he  is  married.  I  am  now 
content." 

''  You  love  your  niece  very  much,  as  Raymond 
has  told  me.  She  is  charming." 

"You  don't  know  how  charming  she  is.  She  is 
also  an  orphan.  Her  mother  has  been  dead  a 
dozen  years — happily — I  was  about  to  say.  If  I 
only  dared." 

"Why?" 

"  She  was  a  sad  woman,  an  invalid,  too,  I  think. 


10  t 

She  did  not  love  her  daughter,  and  never  paid  any 
attention  to  her.  A  friend  of  mine  took  care  of  the 
child  and  raised  her  with  her  own  children,  and 
succeeded  admirably.  Raymond  called  at  the  house. 
At  bottom,  I  think  my  friend  had  chosen  Raymond 
for  her  elder  daughter,  and  then  my  nephew  was 
foolishly  infatuated  with  Estelle,  and  they  had  to  let 
him  have  her,  whether  or  no.  That  caused  the  cool- 
ness between  Mme.  de  Polrey  and  us.  Well,  it  is 
too  bad.  What  can  I  do  ?  And  I  love  Estelle 
more  than  I  do  all  the  little  de  Polreys,  all,  as  many 
as  there  are.  They  are  refined,  but,  with  their 
gossip,  they  are  regular  poll-parrots  in  the  room. 
However,  our  Estelle  is  a  woman.  She  is  true  to  de 
Beaurand." 

"  Enthusiast ! "  said  Benoist,  smiling. 

"Enthusiast?  So  be  it,  always;  all  my  life; 
which  has  given  me  no  little  pleasure,"  Mme.  Mont- 
clar  remarked,  dreamily.  All  at  once  she  arose. 

"  I  must  see  how  they  are  dressing  her,  that  child, 
if  you  will  permit  it.  I  will  return  immediately." 

She  went  out  by  the  same  door  that  her  niece  did, 
leaving  Benoist  to  his  meditations. 


CHAPTEK  II. 

Raymond  stopped  at  the  landing  to  give  some 
orders  ;  that  done,  he  cast  around  him  the  glance  of 
the  satisfied  master. 

The  rich  hotel  had  preserved  its  freshness  of  colors 
and  brilliant  decorations,  seldom  attended  with 
twenty  years  of  repose,  and  they  were  softer  to  the 
eyes  than  when  new.  The  great  tapestries,  preserved 
in  the  family  during  more  than  two  hundred  years, 
draping  the  marble  walls,  descended  to  the  steps  of 
the  staircase,  where  they  lay  in  sumptuous  folds. 
The  light  came  from  above  through  a  cupola  sur- 
rounded by  balustres  ajoures,  from  which  hung 
cloths,  embroidered  and  bedizened  with  gold,  the 
purple  carpet  was  thrown  into  relief  by  the  brilliant 
whiteness  of  the  stone;  great  azalias  filled  all  the 
vacant  places ;  above  the  ballustrade  great  green 
palms  crossed  their  leaves  under  the  canopy  of  joy 
and  glory.  Two  hours  before,  Raymond  had  passed 
through  this  wilderness  of  gaiety,  conducting  his 
young  wife,  dressed  in  original  flowers;  in  a  few 
minutes  they  would  repass  in  simple  traveling  cos- 
tumes, and  at  that  thought  the  heart  of  the  young 
man  beat  more  loudly.  The  hour  at  which  he  led 
her  into  the  old  mansion  of  his  father  had  been  an 
hour  of  thanksgiving ;  but  that  upon  which  he  would 
take  her  out  with  him  would  be  a  hundred  times 
more  joyous.  With  a  little  haste  he  succeeded  in 
giving  his  instructions  for  the  days  to  come,  and 
called  Michel,  his  valet,  de  chambre. 

11 


12  UN   MYSTERE. 

"  All  is  ready/'  said  he.  He  was  a  man  of  forty, 
with  a  military  bearing,  in  dress-coat  and  white 
cravat.  "  I  lighted  a  little  fire  in  your  room,  Cap- 
tain, for  it  was  not  warm  in  comparison  with  the 
rest  of  the  house." 

"  All  right,"  said  Raymond,  absently. 

"And  the  mail,  Captain,  is  on  the  writing  desk." 

"Thanks.  You  may  go  into  the  dressing-room 
and  wait  for  me  there.  I  will  be  in  in  a  moment. 
Say  also  that  I  am  detained,  if,  by  chance,  madame 
should  be  ready  before  I." 

With  the  dogged  step  of  a  man  who  is  going  to 
do  some  drudgery,  Raymond  went  into  his  room. 

It  was  one  he  had  occupied  ever  since  the  death 
of  his  father  had  drawn  near  to  him  his  Aunt  Mont- 
clar,  a  widow  without  children.  During  the  holi- 
days of  Saint  Cyr  he  had  passed  many  fine  nights 
there,  sleeping  till  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning  in 
the  great  bed  draped  with  sombre  curtains,  there  in 
the  alcove.  It  was  a  large  room,  a  dark,  massive 
writing-desk  near  the  window,  an  enormous  fire- 
place in  which  a  large  log  was  burning,  did  not 
make  the  room  look  narrow.  Above  the  mantel  was 
a  large  picture  of  General  de  Beaurand  in  place  of 
a  mirror.  Every  day  and  every  evening  when  in 
Paris,  Raymond  greeted  his  father  in  look  and  in 
heart.  The  fine  blonde  face  of  his  mother  had  been 
effaced  from  his  memory,  as  photographs  are  some- 
times weakened  by  the  action  of  the  light  and  the 
sun,  and  of  which  there  remain  but  indistinct  traces. 
But  he  always  thought  of  his  father,  a  little  while 
ago  living,  superb,  upon  his  yellow-chestnut  horse,  a 
short  time  since,  dead,  livid,  extended  upon  a  litter 


UN   MYSTERE.  13 

of  boughs,  with  a  wound  in  his  left  side,  a  wound  so 
singular  that  it  was  formerly  spoken  of  not  as  an 
accident,  but  as  a  murder.  On  entering  his  room, 
Raymond  looked  at  the  portrait  and  thought  of  the 
wound.  Strangely  he  missed  his  father  more  upon 
that  day  than  any  other.  The  quasi-rnaladive  affec- 
tion, which  his  memory  had  saved,  made  very  pain- 
ful that  day  when  the  dear  souls  were  parted  more 
than  ever  before  from  happiness.  In  the  gray  light 
of  an  afternoon  in  May  the  portrait  seemed  paler 
than  usual. 

"Who  could  have  killed  his  father?  Revenge? 
Everybody  in  the  country  loved  him.  He  was 
received  on  the  ground  of  friendship  in  all  the  houses 
for  five  leagues  around.  Upon  that  fatal  day  he  was 
alone  hunting,  having  given  to  his  hunting  guard  an 
order  to  take  his  dog  and  another  with  a  beater.  On 
returning  they  found  the  General,  dead,  near  the  same 
passage  where  they  had  left  him,  at  the  foot  of  a 
hedge  near  a  fosse.  The  gun  had  exploded  as  M.  de 
Beaurand  jumped  the  hedge.  "Who  could  then  have 
killed  the  General,  and  why  ? 

Raymond  shook  off  the  importunate  idea  and  re- 
turned to  the  desk.  A  large  photograph  of  Estelle, 
placed  behind  the  blotting  case,  well  in  the  light, 
calm,  sweet-looking,  hands  crossed,  oaught  his  eye. 
He  looked  at  it  with  an  affectionate  consciousness. 

"Dear  one,  dear  one,"  he  said,  pressing  his  lips 
against  the  glass  that  covered  it. 

The  cold  contact  was  disagreeable  to  him.  He 
took  the  photograph  from  the  case  and  kissed  it 
passionately,  with  a  throbbing  of  the  heart  that  had 
not  stopped  since  morning.  "When  he  put  it  back 


14  UN   MYSTEKE. 

upon  the  table  he  saw  a  compact  mass  of  cards, 
letters,  and  telegrams  of  all  colors,  sizes  and  forms. 

"Oh,  heavens,"  thought  he,  "and  must  I  read  all 
those." 

At  last,  in  order  to  relieve  himself  from  the  weari- 
some task  he  hopefully  looked  at  his  watch;  but  the 
watch  gave  him  time  to  look  over  the  correspond- 
ence. So  many  must  be  finished  before  he  could 
be  at  liberty,  afterwards — that  afterwards  contained 
for  him  a  multitude  of  intoxicating  pleasures.  With 
a  resigned  hand  he  seized  the  first  envelope  that 
came,  removed  the  letter  and  read  patiently  what  it 
contained. 

Regrets  with  an  affectionate  word,  cards  of  indif- 
ference with  nothing  at  all,  offers  of  house  furnishers, 
letters  from  domestics  desirous  of  entering  into  the 
service  of  himself  or  of  his  wife;  one  after  another 
Raymond  removed  from  its  envelope,  read  and 
classed  the  letters  placing  the  useless  upon  one  side 
and  those  that  needed  answers  upon  the  other,  with 
that  promptitude  and  that  method  peculiar  to  men 
who  value  their  time  and  their  space.  Twice, 
impatient  to  be  done  he  looked  at  his  watch,  and 
seeing  that  he  still  had  time  he  continued  to  work, 
trying  to  conquer  the  impatience  and  the  foolish 
desire  that  seized  him  each  moment.  Besides,  in  all 
he  had  not  used  ten  minutes.  His  valet  entered  and 
assured  him  that  all  was  in  order. 

"I  am  coming,  Michel,"  said  Raymond  without 
looking. 

The  door  closed. 

Still  two  cards,  that  was  all.  He  arose.  A  letter, 
fallen  to  the  foot  of  the  desk,  attracted  his  attention ; 


UN   MYSTERE.  15 

he  picked  it  up,  and  looked  at  it  with  some  surprise. 
It  was  a  common  envelope.  The  hand-writing  of 
the  address  was  irregular,  like  that  of  those  who 
seldom  write,  it  ascended  toward  the  right  hand 
corner. 

"  To  Monsieur  Raymond  de  Beaurand, 
At  his  hotel,  on  de  Lille  st., 
Paris." 

"  I  do  not  like  the  looks  of  that  letter,"  thought 
Raymond. 

It  resembled,however,in  outward  appearance,many 
of  those  which  he  had  just  read,  coming  from  domes- 
tics out  of  employment;  he  opened  it.  The  sheet  of 
paper  which  it  contained  Avas  covered  with  serrated 
lines  of  a  miserable  but  resolved  script;  one  could 
easily  see  that  the  writer  had  made  a  first  draught 
and  had  copied  it  with  persistence.  Three  pages 
were  full,  on  the  fourth  were  only  a  few  words  and 
a  signature.  Raymond  remained  standing  and 
began  to  read. 

After  the  first  few  lines  he  leaned  upon  a  chair, 
with  haggard  eyes  and  a  discomposed  look.  After 
a  instant  of  waiting  he  seated  himself,  putting  the 
paper  upon  the  table,  for  his  hand  trembled,  and  he 
recommenced  his  reading  with  minute  care.  The 
words  danced  before  him.  He  had  t'o  put  a  hand 
upon  the  paper  and  to  follow  the  lines  with  his  finger 
in  order  to  not  lose  the  place. 

He  read  it  twice  then  threw  himself  forward  and 
thought. 

What  he  thought  must  have  been  horrible,  for  the 
sweat  stood  out  in  great  beads  upon  his  forehead, 
and  he  did  not  think  to  wipe  it  away.  He  arose 


10  UN   MYSTERE). 

sharply,  opened  the  window,  breathed  full  and  deep, 
then  returned  and  seated  himself  before  the  letter. 
More  than  once  he  sought  to  find  in  the  lines  a  phrase 
which  he  re-read,  then  relapsed  into  meditation. 

Michel,  in  the  next  room,  made  a  noise  with  the 
toilet  articles  to  draw  his  attention;  once  he  even 
put  his  head  through  the  half-open  door.  But  his 
master's  appearance  so  terrified  him  that  he  dared 
not  say  anything  and  retired,  a  prey  to  a  deadly  fear. 

Raymond  still  thought ;  many  times  he  made  a 
brusque  movement,  like  a  man  who  had  found  the  so- 
lution to  a  problem,  then  returned  to  the  paper  before 
him,  and  fell  into  an  attitude  of  absolute  dejection. 

"What  if  I  call  Benoist?"  he  said  to  himself. 

The  impossibility  of  communicating  to  another  that 
which  he  had  learned  was  as  clear  as  the  light  itself. 
He  remained  motionless.  The  traveling  clock  struck 
once;  he  looked  at  it,  half  past  five;  he  had  no  time 
to  lose  if  he  wanted  to  catch  the  train.  He  arose 
undecidedly,  unsteadily.  All  the  energy  of  Captain 
de  Beaurand  had  disappeared  ;  there  remained  no 
more  of  him  than  a  poor  man  who  had  fallen  under 
a  stroke  that  he  could  not  have  averted. 

"Captain,"  Michael  ventured,  turning  the  handle 
of  the  door. 

"  Leave  me,"  said  Raymond  in  a  choked  voice. 

"His  eyes  fell  upon  the  letter;  he  took  it,  and,  roll- 
ing it  into  a  ball,  he  threw  it  into  the  fire-place,  where 
it  instantly  burned.  The  ashes  of  the  paper  black- 
ened and  were  drawrn  up  the  chimney  with  a  few 
sparks.  Raymond  followed  them,  wavering  all  the 
time  as  though  drunk. 

The  rustling  of  a  robe  of  silk  was  heard  in  the  cor- 
ridor at  the  door;  the  voice  of  Estelle  accompanied  it. 


UN    MYSTEKK.  17 

"How  about  me,  who  was  afraid  of  not  being 
ready,"  said  she,  laughing. 

"  Raymond,"  said  Mine.  Montclar,  knocking  at  the 
door,  "you  will  miss  the  train." 

"  Let  him  alone,  aunt,  that  would  be  so  droll,"  said 
Estelle,  gaily. 

"  I  am  coming,"  he  answered  in  a  strong  voice. 

Five  minutes  more  and  he  closed  the  window. 

The  two  women  departed,  laughing. 

He  had  taken  his  customary  attitude;  standing,  he 
was  rigid  as  a  corpse.  With  passionate  vehemence 
he  seized  the  photograph  of  Estelle  and  pressed  it  to 
his  lips;  but  his  lips  had  hardly  touched  it  when  he 
recoiled  from  it  with  horror,  looking  straight  into 
the  eyes  of  the  picture  he  seemed  to  be  addressing  to 
it  a  mute  adjuration;  fascinated,  he  was  about  to  kiss 
it  again,  when  he  shrank  back  with  violence.  He 
tore  the  picture  in  pieces, which  he  threw  into  the  fire- 
place, where  they  blazed  without  his  notice.  He  then 
opened  his  box  of  arms  and  took  out  the  pistols,  which 
he  examined.  They  were  in  excellent  condition  and 
loaded.  He  took  one  of  them,  unloaded  it  and  loaded 
it  again,  and  he  seized  it  with  a  firm  hand  and  went 
toward  the  general.  Without  difficulty  he  discovered 
his  own  breast  and  looked  at  the  picture  of  his  father. 

He  looked  at  it  a  long  time  with'eyes  of  tender- 
ness and  sadness.  What  did  he  say  to  it  during  those 
moments  of  mute  contemplation  ?  Was  it  a  prayer, 
or  only  the  expression  of  filial  love  exalted  to  the 
verge  of  insanity  ?  At  the  moment  when  burning 
with  fever  the  eyes  of  Raymond  filled  with  tears;  he 
put  the  muzzle  of  the  pistol  upon  his  heart  and  fell 
dead,  the  pistol  in  his  hand. 


CHAPTER  111. 

One  cannot  describe  the  stupefaction  that  fol- 
lowed. The  first  impression  was  that  it  could  not  be 
true,  and  that  the  whole  house  was  being  duped  by 
a  terrible  hallucination. 

Michel  was  the  first  to  rush  into  the  room;  before 
the  detonation  had  ceased  he  saw  his  Captain  fall. 
Kneeling  at  his  side  he  tried  to  put  his  hand  on  the 
captain's  heart;  but  drew  it  back  smeared  with 
blood,  and  filled  with  a  sickness  that  made  him  fall 
faint. 

Mine.  Montclar  entered  almost  immediately,  sup- 
posing there  had  been  merely  some  slight  fire-arm 
accident,  trusting  that  it  was  nothing,  with  the  con- 
fidence of  those  who  are  so  happy  that  they  cannot 
think  of  the  brutalit}^  of  an  unmerited  fortune. 

At  the  sight  of  her  nephew  extended  upon  the 
floor,  Mme.  Montclar  caught  hold  of  the  door  post 
struck  dumb.  Estelle,  who  followed  her,  entered 
the  room,  took  two  or  three  steps  and  stopped, 
frightened  at  the  terrible  apparition  of  death  that 
she  saw  for  the  first  time.  In  her  light  costume 
of  silver  gray  silk,  dressed  ready  to  go,  flowers  upon 
her  hat  and  her  umbrella  in  her  hand,  she  was  the 
very  image  of  life  and  joy. 

After  the  first  movements  of  terror  she  approached 
him  carefully  and  leaned  over  the  body.  At  that 
moment  her  gown  fell  into  the  stream  of  blood  that 
ran  upon  the  floor. 

"  He  is  only  wounded,  speak,  Michel,"  she  said,  in 
a  low  voice;  "  we  must  go  for  a  surgeon." 

18 


UN   MYSTERE.  19 

The  room  was  filled  with  frightened  servants. 
Benoist  came  in,  his  presence  immediately  com- 
manded order  and  silence. 

"Without  waiting  to  discover  life  in  the  corpse  at 
his  feet,  he  picked  Raymond  up  and  placed  him 
upon  the  bed.  Michel,  having  recovered  his  senses, 
helped  him.  Two  men  were  sent  for  two  surgeons 
in  different  parts  of  the  city,  and  the  rest  of  the 
servants  were  sent  about  their  work. 

"  Your  master  seems  to  be  the  victim  of  an  acci- 
dent," he  said,  in  a  cool  voice;  "  it  is  nothing  un- 
usual. While  you  go  about  your  duties  we  will  see 
what  can  be  done.  While  waiting  for  the  physicians 
we  need  but  be  silent.  " 

The  tone  of  his  voice  had  re-established  confi- 
dence, the  servants  retired,  almost  convinced  that 
the  misfortune  was  purely  accidental. 

The  door  was  closed  and  Benoist  found  himself 
with  the  two  women  and  Michel  before  the  corpse 
of  his  friend. " 

"  He  has  only  fainted,  has  he,  Monsieur, "  said 
Mine.  Montclar,  who  wished  to  hear  good  news. 

Benoist  shook  his  head  sadly. 

"  You  are  both  in  a  condition  to  listen  to  me, "  he 
said,  "Raymond  is  dead.  His  fingers  are  already 
cold  and  becoming  rigid.  What  it 'is  necessary  to 
know  at  present  and  to  conceal,  perhaps,  is  the  cause 
of  his  death." 

"An  accident,"  said  Mme.  Montclar,  wringing 
her  hands,  "  without  doubt  it  is  only  an  accident, 
Monsieur  Benoist.  In  his  happiness  he  always  was 
imprudent.  He  was  beside  himself  for  joy  this 
morning  when  he  went  to  the  church.  He  said  to 


20  UN    MYSTERE. 

me,  '  I  am  silly,  dear  aunt,  absolutely  silly,  I  am  so 
happy. ' ' 

Estelle  said  nothing  but  remained  standing  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  looking  at  her  husband  with 
deep  eyes  full  of  pity.  Benoist  looked  at  her  aston- 
ished to  find  her  so  calm. 

"  And  you,  Madame, "  he  said  to  her,  "  do  you 
think  it  was  an  accident  ? " 

She  did  not  answer,  not  being  accustomed  to 
being  called  Madame.  He  took  a  step  towards  her. 

"Madame  de  Beaurand,"  said  he,  "do  you  also 
believe  that  the  death  of  your  husband  was  due  to 
an  accident?" 

"  Certainly,  Monsieur,"  she  added;  "what  else  could 
it  be?" 

She  turned  towards  him.  A  nervous  start  made 
her  gown  shiver  when  she  encountered  his  inquisi- 
torial look,  so  sharp  that  it  seemed  that  he  would 
bore  into  her  conscience. 

The  room  sounded  with  a  cry  of  woe.  It  was 
Madame  Montclar,  who,  having  recovered  from  her 
shock,  approached  the  bed,  and,  touching  the  already 
cold  hand  of  her  nephew,  had  realized  the  horror  of 
her  fear.  She  fell  upon  her  knees  by  his  side,  with 
sobs  broken  by  words.  The  spectacle  of  the  old 
lady,  in  her  rich  robe,  in  the  attitude  of  despairing 
prayer,  was  heart-rending.  Estelle  approached  her 
and  clasped  her  in  her  arms ;  her  beautiful  face  was 
marked  with  an  unbounded  commiseration. 

"  My  aunt,  my  dear  aunt,"  said  she,  in  a  low 
voice ;  "  for  love  of  him  be  patient,  be  silent." 

"Oh!"  cried  Madame  Montclar,  "you  compre- 
hend nothing.  You  may  speak  of  resignation,  but 


UN   MYSTEKE.  21 

not  to  me,  who  have  known  him  since  he  was 
born." 

An  expression  of  tolerance,  of  suffering,  even  of 
mortification,  passed  over  Estelle's  face;  without 
being  taken  aback,  she  leaned  over  the  old  lady. 

"  Help  me,  Monsieur,"  said  she  to  Benoist,  who 
took  Mine.  Montclar  by  the  other  arm,  and,  between 
the  two,  they  succeeded  in  placing  her  in  a  chair 
against  the  bed. 

"  You  must  take  her  away,"  said  the  young  man 
to  Mme.  de  Beaurand. 

"  You  take  her  away,  if  she  will  consent  to  go," 
said  Estelle,  without  looking  at  him.  "My  place 
is  here — I  am  his  wife." 

Benoist  threw  at  her  such  a  look  as  goes  to  the 
bottom  of  the  soul.  She  bore  it  tranquilly,  a  little 
astonished  at  such  very  inconsistent  persistence. 

"  You  are  surprised  to  not  see  me  cry,"  said  she, 
with  a  haughty  air.  "  I  can  never  cry  when  I  am 
seriously  affected.  Blessed  are  those  who  have  the 
gift  of  tears." 

She  placed  her  hand  caressingly  upon  the  shoul- 
der of  Madame  Montclar,  with  a  soft  tenderness 
which  the  poor  woman  felt,  for  she  responded  by 
pressing  the  compassionate  hand,  and  then  broke 
into  tears. 

Mme.  de  Beaurand  remained  standing  before  her 
aunt,  when  a  servant  announced  the  arrival  of  the 
doctor.  Michel,  who  was  seated  in  a  chair  near  the 
window,  and  who  had  not  made  a  movement  nor 
uttered  a  sound  from  the  time  his  master  was  placed 
on  the  bed,  arose  brusquely  and  approached  the  body. 

The  doctor  was  neither  the  one  nor  the  other  of 


22  TIN   MYSTERE. 

the  noted  surgeons  for  whom  Benoist  had  sent.  He 
was  a  doctor  of  minor  degree,  living  in  the  quarter, 
caught  by  chance  by  one  of  the  servants  and  sent 
in.  He  entered  quietly,  went  to  the  bed,  uncovered 
the  wound  where  the  blood  had  coagulated,  made  a 
few  percussions,  and,  turning  toward  Benoist,  said, 
in  a  low  tone : 

"  The  ball  passed  through  the  heart ;  death  was 
instantaneous." 

"  I  thank  you,  Monsieur,"  said  Benoist,  in  a  calm 
voice.  "  I  suppose  we  must  inform  the  police." 

At  this  word  both  women  regarded  him  with  a 
look  of  repulsion,  which  is  inspired  by  a  like  idea  in 
people  bred  in  the  higher  planes  of  society. 

"Yes,  Monsieur,  certainly,"  said  the  doctor. 

He  had  intended  speaking  of  the  marriage,  about 
which  the  whole  quarter  had  been  excited  since 
morning;  not  knowing  positively,  he  much  doubted 
that  the  young  lady  in  pure  gray  was  the  young 
bride.  He  looked  at  her  with  a  sort  of  stupefac- 
tion ;  she  was  very  pale  and  very  calm,  and  still 
had  on  pearl  gray  gloves. 

"  Yery  well,"  said  Benoist,  laconically.  "  If  you 
will  come  with  me,  we  will  go  to  the  prefecture." 

"But,"  said  the  doctor,  "usually  they  go  to  the 
Commisaire  of  Police  in  the  quarter." 

"Well  then,  go  there,  Monsieur,  and  do  your 
duty.  As  for  me,  I  will  try  to  see  the  Prefect  of 
Police.  The  death  of  Captain  de  Beaurand  was 
purely  accidental,  and  they  must  be  informed  of  it." 

"  Pardon  me,  Monsieur,"  said  the  doctor,  "I  do 
not  believe  that  the  death  was  accidental." 

"Why  so,  Monsieur?"  queried  Benoist,  in  a  proud 
planner. 


UN   MYSTERE.  23 

"Because  of  the  aspect  of  the  wound.  The  muz- 
zle of  the  pistol  touched  the  shirt  and  a  burn  was 
very  apparent.  It  was  not  an  accident." 

Benoist  squeezed  the  arm  of  the  doctor  and  said 
in  an.  imposing  voice : 

"  Upon  bethinking  yourself,  you  will  change  your 
opinion.  I  see  the  presence  of  these  ladies  disturbs 
you.  Ladies,  will  you  retire?  It  is  necessary." 

Madame  Montclar  arose  with  that  peculiar  sub- 
missiveness  with  which  the  higher  classes  bow  to 
that  which  is  convenient.  Estelle  passed  her  arm 
through  that  of  the  old  lady,  and  took  two  steps 
toward  the  door. 

"No,  wait,"  said  the  aunt  of  the  dead,  "let  me 
kiss  him,  my  handsome  Raymond,  my  beloved  Ray- 
mond, my  nephe\v,  my  son.  Like  his  poor  father, 
what  fatality!" 

She  had  thrown  herself  upon  the  bed  and  covered 
with  kisses,  the  face  yet  warm,  upon  which  rested 
super-human  calmness. 

"  Enough,  Madame,"  said  Benoist,  drawing  her 
aside  with  a  firm  hand. 

*'  And  you,  Estelle,  you  will  not  kiss  him  ?  "  said 
Madame  Montclar,  sadly.  "  lie  was  your  husband, 
my  child,  your  husband  before  God  and  man.  Kiss 
him!" 

Obediently,  while  her  face  became  livid,  the 
young  woman  leaned  over  Raymond  and  sealed  a 
kiss  upon  his  brow.  It  was  the  first  he  had  ever 
received  from  her.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had 
come  close  to  him.  An  hour  before,  he  who  lay  in 
the  sleep  of  death  would  have  thrilled  under  that 
liffht  touch. 


24  UN    MYSTERE. 

Estelle  recoiled  from  him  chilled  with  the  cold- 
ness of  death,  then,  reproaching  herself  for  her  fee- 
bleness, placed  a  second  kiss  upon  the  blanched  face, 
as  a  tear  fell  upon  the  closed  eyes. 

Benoist  watched  her  attentively.  The  doctor 
seemed  surprised  to  see  a  woman  show  such  sang 
froid  under  such  circumstances.  Estelle  paid  no 
attention  to  them,  and  drawing  the  hand  of  Madame 
Montclar  through  her  arm,  led  her  from  the  room. 

When  the  doctor  was  alone  witli  Benoist  and 
Michel,  he  approached  the  corpse  to  make  a  com- 
plete examination.  Theodore,  with  a  gesture,  stopped 
him. 

"It  is  useless,"  said  he,  "you  are  right,  but 
nobody,  except  us,  and  those  who  should  know  it, 
shall  know  the  truth.  To  the  people  it  shall  pass  as 
an  accident,  and  it  is  for  them  that  I  desire  you  to 
go  with  me.  Besides,  it  will  avail  nothing.  I  alone 
shall  do  what  need  be  done.  Michel,  you  will 
remain  here,  allow  nobody  to  enter,  touch  nothing 
and  arrange  nothing." 

"  But  what  if  the  ladies  wish  to  see  the  captain  ?  " 
asked  Michel,  whose  face  had  become  haggard  ai*d 
dark. 

"  You  will  refuse;  that  is  the  order;  you  under- 
stand?" 

"  I  understand,"  said  the  worthy  fellow. 

Benoist  went  out,  followed  by  the  doctor.  When 
the  sound  of  their  footsteps  had  died  out  in  the  cor- 
ridor, the  old  soldier  left  the  bed  and  began  an 
anxious  and  silent  search  through  the  room. 

"  It  was  the  letter  that  caused  the  deed,"  he 
thought,  as  his  temples  throbbed  with  the  excess  of 


UN  MYSTERE.  25 

contained  emotion.  "  If  I  could  only  find  it,  that 
beggarly  letter." 

lie  did  not  search  the  envelopes  which  made  a 
heap  upon  the  writing  desk;  but  obstinately  worked 
over  the  pile  which  Raymond  had  prepared  to 
answer.  When  he  was  assured  that  he  could  find 
nothing  of  the  missing  paper,  he  put  them  all  back 
in  their  place  and  continued  his  search.  He  went  to 
the  fireplace  and  saw  the  pieces  of  Estelle's  picture, 
which  the  fire  had  not  entirely  consumed.  At  sight 
of  them,  he  was  struck  dumb,  without  thought  or 
word.  "With  almost  unaccountable  care,  he  took 
one,  examined  it  and  returned  it  to  the  exact  place 
whence  he  took  it.  At  that  moment,  one  of  the 
servants,  called  by  Estelle  to  bring  some  fresh  water 
to  Mme.  Montclar,  entered  the  room,  as  though 
bewildered,  and  said  to  his  comrade: 

"Did  you  notice?  The  bride  had  blood  on  her 
robe." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

In  one  of  the  large  salons  of  the  mansion  trans- 
formed into  a  zealous  chapel,  reposed  the  body  of 
Raymond  de  Beaurand,  prepared  for  his  last  resting- 
place. 

After  all  sorts  of  authentications,  Michel  had 
dressed  his  master  in  a  new  uniform,  worn  for  the 
first  time  on  that  fateful  morning,  and  they  had  laid 
him  upon  the  bier.  The  handsome  face  of  the  young 
man  was  not  troubled.  The  tear  that  was  shed  by 
Estelle  had  quickly  dried  upon  the  eyelid  of  the 
dead,  who  seemed  to  be  sleeping  peacefully,  had  it 
not  been  that  the  lips  were  tightly  pressed  together. 
The  flowers  placed  everywhere  on  the  occasion  of 
the  marriage,  had  been  artistically  arranged  behind 
the  catafalque  in  the  form  of  a  wall  of  verdure.  All 
around  they  filled  the  room,  leaving  a  small  space  in 
which  to  move.  The  candelabras,  filled  with  burn- 
ing candles,  cast  a  golden  light  upon  the  purple  car- 
pets placed  in  the  passage  ways. 

Benoist,  who  had  superintended  the  whole  ar- 
rangement, did  not  desire  black  hangings.  Ray- 
mond would  still  pass  some  hours  in  the  palace  of 
his  father,  in  the  midst  of  the  splendor  of  his  nuptial 
glory. 

A  priest  and  two  sisters  of  charity  prayed  over 
the  deceased.  Meanwhile,  Benoist  and  Michel  were 
closeted  with  M.  Andre  Bolvin,  assistant  procurer  de 
la  Republique,  searching  everywhere  for  the  letter, 
mentioned  by  the  valet  de  charribre.  That  letter 

26 


UN   MYSTERE.  27 

which  had  undoubtedly  caused  the  death  of  his 
master,  as  he  said. 

They  had  gone  over  everything.  It  was  sad  to 
see  the  most  secret  drawers,  the  most  sacred  boxes 
opened  by  an  unknown  representative  of  the  law. 
They  found  only  family  relics,  old  letters  of  General 
de  Beaurand  written  to  his  wife,  the  correspondence 
of  friends,  some  dead,  some  living — nothing,  not  a 
word,  which  could  explain  the  strange  suicide. 

"  The  letter  is  in  the  pile,"  said  Michel,  for  the 
tenth  time,  with  a  sort  of  rage. 

"  The  Captain  might  have  burned  it,  one  can  not 
tell  what  has  become  of  it.  After  all,"  said  Andre 
Bolvin,  raising  his  clear,  penetrating  eyes  over  their 
heads,  "what could  have  been  in  the  letter?" 

"I  absolutely  do  not  know;  but  when  I  saw  my 
capttin  reading  it  I  was  frightened,  for  I  never  saw 
such  a  look  on  a  human  face.  From  that  moment,  I 
feared  some  misfortune.  Ah!  if  I  had  done  as  I 
ought  to  have  done,  I  should  have  remained  in  the 
room ! " 

"You  know  nobody  who  could  have  wished  to 
have  caused  de  Beaurand  any  sorrow  or  could  have 
desired  to  have  frightened  him  ? " 

"  Nobody  ;  you  see  he  was  like  his  father — every  - 
bodv  liked  him." 

v 

"  That  did  not  prevent  somebody's  having  killed 
him,  though ;  or  that  he  killed  himself." 

The  young  assistant  looked  attentive  at  Michel. 
In  a  few  words  Benoist  related  to  him  the  tragical 
death  of  the  General. 

"  Truly,  it  is  singular,"  he  said. 

a  nervous  hand  he  looked  over  the  cards  and 


28  UN   MYSTERE. 

letters  lying  on  the  writing  desk.  All  at  once  he 
seated  himself  and  began  to  closely  study  the  envel- 
opes, placing  them  with  their  respective  cards, 
identifying  them,  as  nearly  as  possible  by  the  hand- 
writing. 

Benoist  watched  him  closely,  aiding  him  when  a 
difficulty  presented  itself,  and  accounting  for  the 
letters,  the  authors  all  of  which  he  knew  or  at  least 
knew  the  name.  This  work  ended,  one  envelope 
remained  upon  the  table. 

"  This  is  the  envelope,"  said  the  deputy. 

"  I  hardly  hoped  to  find  the  letter  there." 

Benoist  looked  at  the  envelope  with  a  singular 
emotion.  That  common  piece  of  paper  contained 
the  message  of  death.  And  he  had  no  idea  of  where 
to  find  the  letter. 

"  There  is  evidently  a  woman  in  the  case,"  said 
Bolvin,  turning  the  envelope  over. 

"A  Avoman  ?  I  don't  believe  it ;  I  know  the  life 
of  my  friend,  and  that  seems  impossible." 

"  There  are  many  ways  in  which  a  woman  may  be 
involved,"  said  the  deputy,  without  moving.  "  I  did 
not  say  that  it  was  the  revenge  of  one  whom  he  had 
deserted,  you  understand  me,  but  if  there  should  not 
be  a  woman  at  the  bottom  of  this  matter,  it  will  be 
very  singular.  Did  your  friend  know  anybody  at 
Laval?" 

"At  Laval,"  said  Benoist,  searching  his  memory. 
"  No,  I  do  not  think  so." 

"  Has  he  been  stationed  at  that  town  ?  " 

"  No  sir,"  said  Michel,  distinctly. 

"  Did  the  Beaurands  have  any  servants  there  ;  any 
whatever?  Are  there  none  of  the  domestics  of  this 


UN   MYSTERE.  29 

house  who  have  relations  there  ?  The  letter  bears  the 
post  mark  of  Laval ;  but  then  it  might  have  been 
sent  there  from  Paris  and  thence  here ;  however,  it 
was  posted  at  Laval.  These  letters  arrive  post-haste, 
and  that  makes  tracing  them  veiy  difficult.  It  then 
becomes  necessary  to  know  if  those  who  immediately 
surround  the  family  have  not  relations  at  Laval. 
You  will  make  it  your  business  to  find  that  out, 
Michel." 

The  young  magistrate  remained  silent  for  a 
moment.  The  large  room  was  very  dark,  notwith- 
standing the  two  or  three  lamps  placed  upon  the 
stands  to  light  the  corners. 

"  Michel,  you  will  leave  us,"  said  M.  Bolvin.  The 
servant  obeyed,  going  out  silently. 

k*  Monsieur,"  said  the  deputy  to  Benoist,  who  was 
seated  in  front  of  him,  "  can  you  tell  me  what  was 
M.  de  Beaurand's  attitude  toward  his  wife?" 

From  the  moment  that  he  was  certain  of  the 
death  of  his  friend,  Benoist  had  not  ceased  to  think 
of  that  same  question  and  to  wonder  what  import 
his  answer  should  have.  In  presence  of  a  direct 
question,  he,  in  his  turn,  looked  at  the  man  that  put 
the  question,  and  decided  that  he  was  an  honest 
man. 

"  His  sentiments  were  of  the  warmest  tenderness," 
said  he,  without  hesitating. 

"You  are  sure  of  it  ?  " 

"  Absolutely  certain,  for  we  were  talking  about  it 
not  more  than  a  half-hour  before  the  misfortune." 

"  Then  he  spoke  of  it  to  you  ?  " 

"  In  an  extraordinary  way." 

"  How,  then,  can  you  explain  the  fact  that  the  torn 


30  UN  MTSTERE. 

picture  of  Mme.  de  Beaurand  was  found  in  the 
ashes?"  said  Bolvin,  examining  the  remains  of  the 
photograph,  which  he  had  picked  up  and  put  away. 

"  I  can  not  explain  it,"  said  Benoist,  honestly. 

A  silence  followed ;  the  deputy  looked  from  the 
pieces  of  the  photograph  to  the  envelope  alternately, 
as  though  by  confronting  them  he  hoped  to  make 
them  speak. 

"  And  Mme.  de  Beaurand:  Can  you  tell  me  how 
she  felt  toward  her  husband  ? " 

Benoist  did  not  answer  immediately  ;  that  which 
he  was  about  to  say  was  of  such  gravity  that  he 
wished  to  know  its  whole  effect  before  saying  one 
word. 

"  Do  you  desire  to  say  nothing? "  said  Bolvin,  in  a 
tone  which  cut  Benoist  like  the  stroke  of  a  knife. 

"  No ;  I  was  only  trying  to  find  out  how  I  could 
explain  it  to  you  so  that  you  might  have  an  exact 
idea.  I  do  not  know  how  I  can  do  it  better  than  to 
relate  to  you  my  last  conversation  with  Raymond ; 
you  will  be  better  able  to  judge  from  that  than  from 
my  own  personal  idea  of  it." 

Followed  by  the  closest  attention  of  the  magis- 
trate, he  then  related  their  conversation  exactly. 

"  You  will  say  that  my  friend,  enamored  as  he 
was  of  his  Avife,  was  not  deluded  in  regard  to  the 
affection  she  had  for  him  ;  but  he  thought  her  good, 
good  as  goodness  itself,  and  it  was  on  account 
of  that  goodness  that  he  gained  the  consent  of 
Mme.  de  Beaurand,  who  had  very  much  friendship 
for  him." 

"  How  was  she  to  him  toward  the  last  ? " 

tl  I  saw  her  little  until  to-day.     She  was  affection- 


UN   MYSTERE.  31 

ate  and  gay,  very  calm.  All  in  all,  she  seemed  happy 
in  being  married." 

"  Mine,  de  Beaurand  was  Miss  Brunaire  ?  Family 
good  ?  Her  parents  -  " 

"  The  father  has  been  dead  since  the  birth  of  his 
daughter,  the  mother  survived  ^:m  eight  years." 

"  An  orphan,  then ;  schoolod  in  a  convent,  by 
the  kindness  of  a  friand  '.'  I  heard  that.  It  was 
not  then  a  money  marriage  ?  " 

"  Neither  on  one  side  nor  the  other." 

"  How  old  was  Mine,  de  Beaurand  ? " 

"A little  more  than  twenty." 

The  deputy  reflected. 

"And  she,  she  knows  no  one  at  Laval?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Benoist. 

"  Will  you  ask  her  to  come  here  ?  I  would  go  to 
her,  except  that  on  account  of  Mme.  Montclar  I 
think  it  preferable." 

Benoist  went  ou,  by  the  door  leading  into  the 
corridor  and  asked  of  the  first  servant  where  he 
might  find  Mmec  de  Beaurand.  He  was  told  that  she 
was  in  the  chapel  of  prayer.  So  there  he  went. 
The  great  clock  oi  the  palace  struck  eleven.  The 
priests  anc ".  the  two  sisters  of  charity  prayed  all  the 
time.  One  might  have  followed  the  psalms  by  the 
movement  of  their  lips.  A  short  'distance  from 
them  upon  a  prie-dieu,  fixed  for  the  occasion, 
Estelle  knelt,  dressed  in  an  indoor  gown  of  pure 
white,  because  she  had  no  dress  of  black  in  the 
hotel,  with  hands  joined.  With  an  expression  of 
anxious  interrogation,  she  looked  at  the  corpse  of 
him  who  was  her  husband  only  before  the  world. 
Why  was  he  there,  when  he  should  have  been  with 


32  UN   MYSTERE. 

her  in  a  nest  prepared  for  them  ?  A  tearful  tender- 
ness came  to  her  lips  and  showed  in  her  eyes  as  she 
saw  there,  him  whom  she  had  accepted  as  her  hus- 
band with  the  full  hope  of  being  happy,  with  a 
deeply  sincere  intention  of  returning  to  him  love  for 
love,  just  at  the  moment  when  his  soul  closed  and 
he  had  become  happy.  "  It  was  not  my  fault,"  said 
she  to  herself,  "  if  I  never  really  loved  him.  I  could 
not;  he  was  to  me  a  very  dear  friend;  I  do  not  know 
that  he  could  ever  have  become  a  beloved  friend. 
One  may  be  good,  affectionate  and  true  to  one's 
husband  without  showing  passion  for  him.  Doubt- 
less, I  do  not  know  how  to  be  passionate,  but  I  am 
sure,  however,  that  I  could  have  made  his  a  life  of 
happiness." 

The  deadened  sound  of  the  footsteps  of  Benoist 
roused  her  from  her  revery.  They  had  disturbed 
Mme.  Montclar  a  dozen  times  to  ask  her  desires,  but 
she  was  so  overwhelmed  that  she  could  not  answer. 

"  Will  you  come  with  me  a  moment,  Madame," 
said  Benoist,  in  a  low  tone. 

She  rose  and  followed  him  with  a  sort  of  repug- 
nance; the  way  in  which  he  had  examined  her  over 
the  body,  had  made  a  disagreeable  impression  upon 
her.  As  he  guided  her  through  the  corridor,  she 
stopped. 

"Are  we  going  into  that  room?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  the  deputy  wishes  to  make  a  few  inquiries." 

"Very  well,"  said  she,  tranquilly. 

She  entered;  Bolvin,  immediately  struck  with  her 
beauty,  her  distinction,  her  supreme  elegance,  bowed 
respectfully  to  her.  She  stood  erect  without  notic- 
ing the  chair  which  he  offered  her ;  thus  obliging 
him  to  stand  also. 


UN  MYSTERE.  33 

"  I  beg  pardon,  Madame,"  said  he,  "  I  have  only  a 
word  to  say  to  you.  Do  you  know,  far  or  near,  high 
or  low  in  the  social  world,  anybody  who  lives,  or  has 
parents  or  friends  who  live,  at  Laval?" 

"Laval?" 

"  Yes,  or  in  the  environments ;  think  welL" 

Estelle  bowed  her  head,  searching  her  memory 
scrupulously.  Then  looked  Bolvin  full  in  the  face 
and  said : 

"  No,  sir ;  I  know  nobody  in  that  district.  I  have 
never  been  there." 

"  Very  well,  Madame,  that  is  all,"  said  the  deputy, 
saluting  her. 

She  went  out  with  her  head  bowed.  When  she 
had  left  the  room  Bolvin  looked  at  Benoist  and 
said  :  "  The  letter  which  has  caused  ,;he  suicide  was 
undoubtedly  a  denunciation  of  Mme0  de  Beaurand. 

"A  denunciation — a  calumny  ."  said  Benoist. 

"I  think  so,"  said  Bolvin,  coolly. 


CHAPTER  V. 

All  of  Paris,  that  had  assisted  on  the  afternoon  of 
the  nuptial  ceremony,  learned  upon  rising,  the  next 
morning,  of  the  death  of  Captain  de  Beaurand.  A 
large  morning  journal  informed  of  the  accident  im- 
mediately, gave  an  account  of  it  to  its  readers  upon 
the  first  page.  Theodore  Benoist  had  thought  of 
many  things,  but  he  had  not  thought  to  close  the 
mouths  of  a  dozen  servants  and  as  many  more  sub- 
alterns belonging  to  as  many  different  professions. 
The  effect  of  this  indiscretion  was  disastrous.  Beau- 
rand,  married  in  the  morning,  died  during  the  day  ? 
The  simple  explanation  of  a  simple  accident  could 
satisfy  nobody.  It  was  too  simple.  And  then, 
besides,  what  need  was  there  of  a  young  husband 
playing  with  fire-arms?  On  all  sides  interested  and 
curious  they  ran  to  the  hotel  de  Beaurand. 

The  most  positive  orders  had  been  given  that  no- 
body should  be  allowed  to  see  Mme.  Montclar  or  the 
young  widow;  but  certain  people  passed  all  the 
barriers  and  forced  all  consigns  with  an  inexplicable 
ease.  At  the  moment  when  Estelle  had  come  from 
her  modiste  who  had  been  called  to  make  the 
mourning  costume  late  in  the  evening  previous,  the 
Baroness  de  Polrey  came  to  her,  followed  by  a  ser- 
vant whom  she  had  easily  seduced  by  her  assurance. 

"  I  thought  that  your  orders  did  not  include  me, 
my  dear  Estelle,"  said  she,  with  a  wounded  air  very 
strange  upon  the  face  of  a  happy,  wordly  woman. 
tf  You  could  not,  under  such  circumstances,  refuse  to 
see  the  friend  who  replaced  your  mother." 

34 


UN    MYSTEKE.  35 

"  Certainly,  dear  Madame,"  said  the  young  woman, 
a  little  coldly ;  "  I  thank  you  for  the  solicitude  you 
have  shown." 

Mine,  de  Polrey  looked  at  her  curiously,  as  one 
would  examine  something  odd.  This  bride  of  the 
evening,  widow  before  being  a  wife,  was  destined 
to  become  the  subject  for  common  conversation  dur- 
ing a  week  or  more ;  what  honor  to  be  able  to  say, 
"  It  is  I  who  saw  her  first ; "  all  at  once  she  remem- 
bered that  the  pretext  of  her  visit  had  a  maternal 
interest,  and  she  opened  her  arms  : 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  she,  "  what  a  horrible  situa- 
tion this  is  for  you.  In  this  house  where  you  are 
actually  a  stranger,  you  must  have  need  of  a  friend 
to  whom  you  can  open  your  heart  ?  Kiss  me,  my 
darling." 

But  the  darling  did  not  seem  the  least  bit  in  the 
world  to  display"  any  effusion.;  she,  however,  kissed 
Mme.  de  Polrey  with  mere  convenient  recognition, 
and  seeing  that  she  did  not  defer  to  it,  she  offered 
her  a  chair. 

"  Is  this  your  room  ? "  said  the  Baroness,  shad- 
ing her  eyes  with  her  hand  and  looking  round  her. 
"  It  is  nice,  very  nice,  a  little  sombre  these  tapes- 
tries— as  for  me,  I  have  a  room  in  blue  and  gold,  but 
I  am  a  blonde.  Let  us  see,  Estelle,  tell  me  how  did 
it  happen  ?  You  know  you  may  place  all  your  confi- 
dence in  me,  I  am  as  mute  as  a  tomb.  Were  you 
present  ?  Poor  child,  how  you  must  suffer." 

"  I  was  not  there,"  answered  Estelle,  decisively. 

Since  the  eve™™  Before,  she  had  learned  that  she 
should  speak  as  ittle  as  possible.  Her  short  inter- 
view with  the  deputy  had  aroused  in  her  ideas  of 


36  UN   MTSTERE. 

prudence,  the  existence  of  which  she  had  never  sus- 
pected. 

"  He  was  alone  then  ? "  queried  Mme.  de  Polrey  ; 
"  the  poor  fellow !  But  then,  why  did  he  touch  the 
pistols?  What  imprudence,  and  then,  don't  you 
think,  between  us,  that  an  officer  ought  to  know  the 
danger  of  such  arms  enough  to  avoid  them  ?  Don't 
you  think  so  ?  tell  me." 

"  I  know  absolutely  nothing,"  answered  Estelle, 
with  a  little  petulence.  "I  can  not  think  of  such 
things.  I  know  only  one  thing,  and  that  is,  that  we 
were  married  yesterday  at  one  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon, and  that  before  six  o'clock  in  the  evening,  I 
was  a  widow ;  that  is  enough  to  shatter  the  most 
robust  nerves.  I  tell  you,  my  dear  Madame,  that  I 
am  absolutely  broken  down." 

"I  understand  that,"  said  the  Baroness,  without 
moving,  "  my  poor  dear.  Have  you  been  able  to 
cry,  at  all?" 

"  When  I  have  much  sorrow,"  said  Estelle,  "  I  am 
unable  to  cry." 

"  Your  eyes  are,  however,  very  hollow.  It  is  ter- 
rible, and  what  did  Mme.  Montclar  say  about  it  ?  " 

"  She  is  overwhelmed.  I  am  afraid  that  she  will 
never  recover.  Happily  there  is  a  friend  of  Ray- 
mond who  has  charge  of  all." 

"  That  is  fortunate,  truly.  Only  two  women — what 
could  they  do  ? — great  heavens !  What  are  you  going 
to  do?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  will  have  to  have  time  in  which 
to  reflect." 

"  No  doubt,  no  uuuui/.  A.ny  way,  will  you  remain 
here  in  the  hotel  while  waiting?" 


UN   MYSTERE.  37 

"  Evidently,"  said  Estelle,  who  did  not  understand ; 
"  is  it  not  my  house  ? " 

"Ah!"  said  Mrae.  de  Polrey,  with  a  sigh,  half 
hopeful  and  half  disappointed;  "  then  you  have  de- 
cided the  question  ? " 

"  For  the  present,  absolutely ." 

"  I  came  to  ask  you,"  said  the  Baroness,  with  a 
great  liberality  of  mind,  u  if  you  would  not  return 
to  our  house  and  take,  there,  the  same  room  that 
you  had  when  you  were  a  young  girl  ?  But  then 
you're  decided." 

Estelle  looked  her  straight  in  her  eyes  and  pierced 
her  to  the  bottom  of  her  soul.  Before  that  day  she 
had  judged  the  Baroness  and  found  her  terri.oly  hol- 
low, except  in  that  which  concerned  her  maternal 
kindness  ;  it  was  from  this  remaining  part  that  they 
had  called  her  a  good  woman. 

Upon  the  death  of  Mme.  Brunaire,  Mme.  de  Pol- 
rey was  charged  with  raising  Estelle.  Why  the 
Baroness  more  than  anyone  else?  No  particular 
friendship  had  united  her  with  the  deceased,  who, 
besides  during  several  years  cared  for  nobody  and 
seemed  to  be  detached  from  the  world  by  a  sort  of 
sad  monomania.  Mme.  de  Polrey  had  obtained 
charge  of  Estelle  for  the  simple  reason  that  she  had 
asked  it ;  the  tutor  of  the  orphan,  pleased  with  not 
being  obliged  to  occupy  herself  with  the  child,  dis- 
charged the  pupil  upon  the  amiable  woman,  the  wife 
of  a  worthy  man,  enemy  to  all  care,  mother  to  three 
little  girls,  and  who  was  probably  an  ample  guaran- 
^33  for  competency  in  the  matter  of  education. 

The  agreement  between  Estelle  and  her,  who,  to 
use  an  admissible  phrase,  took  the  place  of  her 


38  UN  MTSTERE. 

mother,  had  been  very  simple.  Mme.  de  Polrey 
claimed  neither  recognition  nor  particular  atten- 
tion ;  but  only  the  amiable  politeness  which  consti- 
tutes social  relations.  In  her  family,  Estelle  gave 
her  no  more  trouble  than  one  more  turtle  dove  in  her 
dove  cote  ;  all  the  little  people  were  sent  to  the  con- 
vent, were  visited  in  the  parlor,  went  out  regularly 
and  returned  for  their  holidays  with  a  smiling  dis- 
cipline which  was  no  cause  for  ennui.  When  the 
time  came  to  present  the  young  girls,  Mme.  de  Pol- 
rey was  shown  a  little  deception.  Certainly  Susan, 
her  eldest  daughter,  was  more  fashionably  pretty, 
and  Odette,  the  second,  possessed  an  extraordinary 
"  chic ; "  as  to  Yalentine — she  was  fourteen  years  old  ; 
there  was  no  question  about  all  this.  But  Estelle, 
besides  her  unusual  name  which  attracted  attention 
to  her,  had  a  queenly  appearance,  her  commanding 
beauty  was  so  apparent  that  her  companions  found 
themselves  thrown  relatively  into  the  shade.  This 
was  the  commencement  of  the  sorrows  of  Mme.  de 
Polrey  and  of  her  becoming  undeceived  with  regard 
to  her  pupil.  This  vexatious  spirit  lasted  for  two 
years  without  outward  manifestation,  then  came  the 
question  with  regard  to  Raymond.  The  Baroness 
suffered  from  it  without  showing  her  discomfiture; 
but  Estelle  understood  that  she  herself  was  very 
wrong  to  engross  the  attentions  of  a  heart  intended 
for  Susan  and  without  resenting  the  least  ill-humor, 
she  said  to  herself,  that  Mme.  de  Polrey  was  after 
all  only  mortal  and  not  a  guardian  angel,  as  they 
had  both  said  in  good  faith,  in  times  already  past. 
The  question  was  now  very  neatly  put;  The 
Baroness  had  not  made  her  proposition  until  after 


UN    MYSTERE.  39 

she  had  learned  with  certitude  that  it  would  be  un- 
acceptable. It  was  very  wise  and  absolutely  mater- 
nal having  shown  the  many  inconveniences  which 
would  be  thrown  in  the  way  of  her  ex-pupil.  The 
young  widow  found  herself  wounded.  If,  by  chance, 
she  had  found  it  necessary  to  have  an  asylum  under 
such  circumstances,  could  she  not  have  found  it 
there?  Estelle  was  not  far  enough  advanced  in  life 
to  understand  a  very  natural  excess  of  maternal  pru- 
dence ;  her  young  heart  and  also  her  own  self-esteem 
had  received  a  cutting  wound.  She  did  not  know 
or  wish  to  hide  it,  and  the  Baroness,  who  was  clever, 
discovered  it  immediately.  From  that  moment 
there  was  no  true  affection  between  these  two 
women,  if  it  had  so  much  as  ever  existed.  All  this 
occurred  in  less  than  half  a  minute. 

"I  will  remain  here,"  said  Mme.  de  Beaurand, 
"since  Mme.  Montclar,  my  aunt — she  emphasized 
that  word — will  have  immediate  need  for  care  and 
kindness,  besides  my  mourning  gown  will  keep  me 
out  of  society  for  two  years." 

"  That  is  to  say,  to  remain  with  Mme.  Montclar  is 
what  you  desire  'to  do,"  said  the  Baroness,  slowly,  a 
little  piqued ;  "  and,  besides,  under  these  circum- 
stances, which  are  so  trying,  her  protection  may  be 
quite  necessary." 

"  Her  protection  ? "  asked  Estelle,  straightening  up. 
"  Her  friendship  were  better." 

"  Call  it  what  you  please,  my  dear ;  it  is  certain 
that  the  wife  of  a  man  who  died  suddenly  by  a  pis- 
tol shot  upon  the  day  of  his  wedding,  has  need  of  a 
stable  chaperon,  more  for  the  future  than  for  the 
present.  You  are  in  a  pitiable  situation,  my  dear." 


40  TIN   MYSTERE. 

Estelle  blushed  as  though  under  a  direct  affront, 
notwithstanding  that  Mrae.  de  Polrey  was  right; 
however,  in  her  manner  of  speaking,  she  had  missed 
her  footing,  slightly. 

"  My  situation  is  difficult,  I  understand  that,"  said 
the  young  woman,  "and,  moreover,  I  count  upon  my 
friends  to  uphold  me." 

"Certainly,  my  child,  we  will  all  be  ready  to  sus- 
tain you  and  to  defend  you." 

The  eyes  of  Estelle  shot  fire,  and  she  could  not 
contain  herself. 

"  To  defend  me  ? "  said  she, "  heavens !  and  against 
whom  ? " 

"Against  the  malicious  public,  my  dear  child. 
You  are  intelligent,  Estelle;  do  you  doubt  that 
your  premature  widowhood  will  be  the  subject  of  a 
thousand  comments?  Nobody  will  believe  that  that 
accident " 

"  It  is  very  simple,"  said  Estelle,  with  bitterness. 

"It  is  too  simple!  Do  you  want  to  know  the 
truth?  I  heard  it  said  already  twice  this  morning^ 
and  it  is  not  yet  eleven  o'clock.  Listen,  Estelle,  I 
replaced  your  mother,  and,  well,  I  tell  you,  that  if  a 
like  thing  had  happened  to  one  of  my  daughters,  I 
wouldn't  have  enough  eyes  to  weep  with." 

"  You  needn't  presume  that  it  is  anything  serious," 
said  Mme.  de  Beaurand,  "  and  I  am  happy  to  be  so 
situated  to-day  as  to  cause  you  no  chagrin." 

"  My  dear  child,"  commenced  Mme.  de  Polrey, 
who  repented  of  having  gone  so  far,  for  she  was  not 
cruel,  but  only  imprudent  in  her  language,  like  about 
three-fourths  of  us  mortals  are.  She  stopped  upon 
seeing  that  Estelle  was  not  disposed  to  accept  her 


tJN  MYSTEKE.  41 

advice  nor  explanations,  and  arose  to  go.  "  Is  the 
hour  of  the  ceremony  fixed  ?"  she  asked.  "  I  sup- 
pose it  will  be  to-day  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  so.  M.  Theodore  Benoist  has  charge 
of  these  things.  Gracious!  but  these  details  are 
horrible ! " 

"  You  have  had  ample  opportunity  to  discover 
that  they  are,"  added  Mme.  de  Polrey,  upon  the 
threshold. 

"  Raymond  asked  him  to  remain  " — 

Upon  seeing  the  expression  which  these  words 
brought  to  the  face  of  the  baroness,  Estelle  regret- 
ted having  spoken. 

"  Since  all  is  wrongly  interpreted,"  thought  she, 
"  I  will  say  nothing  to  anyone."  "Au  revoir,  chere 
JMadame,a,nd  I  thank  you,"  she  added,  in  a  full  tone, 
as  Mme.  de  Polrey  disappeared  down  the  stairway. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

The  church  of  St.  Thomas  Aquinas  was  too  small 
to  hold  the  crowd  that  came  to  attend  the  obsequies 
of  Captain  de  Beaurand.  The  magnificent  cata- 
falque, the  many  crowns  of  flowers,  the  lampadaires 
with  green  flames,  which  filled  the  narrow  nave 
where,  twenty-four  hours  before,  Estelle  and  Ray- 
mond had  vowed  to  remain  together  until  death  did 
them  part,  occupied  more  room  than  did  the  two 
upon  their  prie-dieu  of  red  velvet,  and,  moreover, 
now  the  husband  was  alone. 

Benoist,  with  a  truly  remarkable  tact  in  organiza- 
tion, had  discovered  an  old  relation  of  the  famity,near 
enough  to  lead  the  mourners,  and  yet  distant  enough 
to  be  perfectly  indifferent ;  this  person  of  noble 
appearance  and  of  little  excitability  was  installed 
in  the  place  of  honor,  and  conducted  himself  with 
the  air  of  one  whom  nothing  could  astonish,  and  to 
whom  fortune  was  at  the  end  of  all  fluctuation.  It 
was  before  him  that  the  eighteen  hundred  persons 
filed,  who  had  come  in  order  to  be  able  to  say,  "  I 
was  there,"  and  also  to  assure  themselves  that  the 
young  widow,  following  her  own  convenience,  had 
remained  at  home. 

Estelle  had  acted  according  to  the  best  rules,  and 
there  were  many  who  criticized  her  for  it ;  let  us, 
however,  do  them  the  justice  of  saying  that  had 
she  been  there  she  would  have  been  criticized  by 
the  same  persons  and  in  exactly  the  same  manner. 

"  She  should  at  least  have  been  able  to  accompany 

43 


UN   MYSTERE.  4:3 

her  husband  to  the  church  ;  it  does  not  trouble  her 
the  least  in  the  world.  She  owed  him  that,  how- 
ever." 

"  She  did  not  come  out  at  all,"  said  the  others. 
"  That  is  very  singular.  Were  I  in  her  place  - 

One  can  not  imagine  the  many  contradictory 
things  that  they  would  have  done  had  they  been  in 
her  place. 

The  body  of  Raymond  was  interred  under  the 
sumptuous  family  monument  at  Pere-Lachaise,  and 
Benoist,  when  all  was  done,  returned  to  the  hotel  de 
Beaurand  to  inform  Mme.  Montclar  of  all  that 
had  passed. 

Mme.  Montclar  was  one  of  those  women  who, 
having  a  sad  youth,  enjoy  afterward  a  long  period 
of  peaceful  happiness ;  there  shown  from  the  tran- 
quil years  a  soft  light  that  illuminated  all  the  rest 
of  her  life,  and  that  made  it  singularly  easy  to 
accept  old  age.  A  widow  while  yet  young,  without 
children,  as  rich  as  she  could  desire,  Mme.  Montclar 
had  arrived  at  forty  without  great  sorrow ;  at  that 
time  the  tragical  end  of  her  brother  de  Beaurand 
threw  her  into  great  melancholy.  The  love  which 
she  had  avowed  for  little  Raymond  and  the  care  for 
his  education  had  occupied  her ;  since  then  she  had 
descended  life  easily,  not  finding  the  steps  steep, 
feeling  assured  that  she  should  feel  herself  sustained 
until  the  end  by  the  tender  heart  and  robust  and 
strong  hand  of  the  nephew  of  whom  she  had  made 
a  son.  This  accident,  from  which  the  people  would 
make  nothing  but  a  scandal,  ruined,  for  her,  the  rest 
of  her  life.  However,  her  health  and  practical 
nature  furnished  her  with  the  necessary  energy  to 


44  •  UN    MYSTEKE. 

recover  from  her  dejection.  They  had  taken  her 
away  at  the  time  of  the  funeral  ceremony.  •  "When 
she  was  dressed  in  mourning,  she  wished  to  go  and 
pray  before  the  coffin  of  Raymond  in  the  sanctuary  ; 
but  Estelle  told  her  that  he  was  no  longer  there. 
Disposed  at  first  to  protest  against  the  usurpation  of 
her  rights,  Mine.  Montclar  at  last  acceded  to  the 
soft  entreaties  of  Estelle,  who,  taking  her  arm, 
assured  her  that  it  was  better  so.  "  We  know  where 
to  find  him,  my  dear  aunt,"  she  said  to  her,  "  and 
there  we  shall  not  be  a  spectacle  for  the  curiosity  of 
the  people." 

It  was  so  true  that  Madame  Montclar  pressed 
silently  the  hand  of  her  niece,  and  led  her  to  her 
own  private  apartment  where  they  found  Theodore 
Benoist. 

After  he  had  told  them  the  details  of  the  cere- 
nony,  he  remained  silent,  and  the  silence  rested 
iieavily  upon  them.  Estelle  felt  that  he  desired  her 
to  leave  the  room,  that  he  might  have  occasion  to 
;ay  to  Mme.  Montclar,  something  that  he  desired  to 
hide  from  her,  and  as  she  considered  the  pretension 
insolent,  she  resolved  to  remain,  come  what  might. 
Since  the  accident,  Estelle  had  asked  herself  many 
questions,  beside  that  which  took  precedence  above 
all  others,  why  did  Raymond  kill  himself  ?  Many 
others  disquieted  her  constantly ;  primary  among 
them  was,  whence  came  this  singular  attitude  of 
Benoist  in  caring  for  her  ?  He  was  the  last  to  have 
talked  confidentially  with  the  Captain.  What  could 
he  have  said  to  the  unfortunate  one  so  neer  tG>  iiis 
end,  in  that  last  conversation  ?  If  any  one  had  the 
key  to  the  enigma,  Estelle  thought  that  one  must  be 


UN   MYSTERE.  45 

Benoist.  "Was  there  then  a  mysterious  link  between 
the  obvious  coldness  of  this  young  man  and  the 
unexpected  death  of  her  husband  ?  Was  it  Benoist 
who  had  revealed  to  Kaymond,  some  horrible  mys- 
tery or  had  Raymond  before  dying  confided  to  his 
friend  an  inviolable  secret  ?  The  words  of  the 
deputy  had  impressed  the  young  man  with  an  indel- 
ible idea;  the  idea  that  Raymond  died  of  a  denun- 
ciation of  his  wife,  that  had,  little  by  little,  taken 
control  of  him. 

The  truth  is  that  hypothesis  cleared  up  all  that 
was  otherwise  obscure.  But  then,  whence  did  he 
derive  his  faith?  what  documents?  what  over- 
whelming proof  did  that  letter,  which  had  dis- 
appeared, contain  that  Raymond  had  not  taken  time 
to  verify  that  which  it  revealed  to  him  and  had 
not  doubted  it  for  a  single  instant  ?  What  mystery 
could  be  hidden  in  the  apparently  transparent  life 
of  Estelle  ?  What  was  the  secret  concealed  by  that 
beautiful  undecipherable  face? 

Undecipherable,  it  had  never  been  and  was  not 
at  that  time  when  it  watched  with  an  unquiet 
curiosity,  trying  to  pierce  the  mask  of  coldness  with 
which  Benoist  tried  to  disguise  his  own  anxiety  to 
know.  And  the  young  man  deceived  himself,  little 
by  little,  by  taking  that  disquietude,  for  the  mani- 
festation of  a  troubled  conscience.  The  trouble 
which  weighed  upon  them  at  that  hostile  waiting, 
won  Mme.  Montclar,  for  to  dissipate  it  she  posed 
resolutely  at  Benoist  the  question  which  burned  upon 
the  lips  of  Estelle. 

"  Have  you  heard  anything  saii  U£i>ii  tie  subject 
of  this  fatal  accident  ? " 


46  UN    MYSTERE. 

Benoist,  before  answering,  looked  at  Estelle.  She 
neither  blushed  nor  turned  pale.  She  awaited  the 
answer  with  lips  slightly  open,  with  body  leaning  a 
little  forward  in  the  attitude  of  attention.  He 
resolved  to  inform  these  two  women  of  the  motive 
which,  according  to  his  presumption,  had  caused 
Raymond  to  commit  suicide. 

"  They  say  a  great  many  things,"  said  he,  measur- 
ing his  words.  "  They  remse  absolutely  to  believe  it 
to  have  been  an  accident." 

"  What  do  they  suppose  ? "  asked  Mme.  Montclar, 
carrying  her  handkerchief  to  her  lips  by  a  nervous 
movement ;  "  we  ought  to  know,  we  are  completely 
in  the  dark." 

"  Not  entirely,  my  dear  Madame." 

They  looked  at  him  with  a  movement  of  attention. 

"  It  is  proved  now,  proved  in  a  certain  way,  that 
Raymond  found  in  his  mail  a  letter  which  he  read 
over  a  great  many  times  and  which  was  the  deter- 
mining cause  of  his  fatal  resolution." 

"A  letter,"  said  Mme.  Montclar.  "Where  is  it, 
what  did  it  contain  ? " 

"  We  know  nothing  of  it. '  The  letter  has  dis- 
appeared. Raymond,  no  doubt,  burned  it,  with 
other  papers,  perhaps." 

He  looked  at  Estelle  who  listened  to  him  with 
eyes  fixed  upon  him  with  an  intense  interest. 

"  A  letter !  Kill  himself  for  a  letter !  Is  it  pos- 
sible !  The  poor  child,  must  have  lost  his  head !  " 

"That  is  what  we  think,"  said  Benoist. 

"We,  who  is  that?" 

"The  deputy  who  had  charge  of  the  inquest 
aiid  I," 


TIN  MYSTERE.  47 

""Was  there  an  inquest,"  asked  Mme.  JVIontcIar 
with  an  expression  of  horror;  "an  inquest  in  this 
house  so  honorable  and  so  respected  ? " 

"  It  was  necessary.  Re-assure  yourself,  my  dear 
lady.  The  secret  is  as  well  guarded  as  possible,  but 
it  was  necessary  that  the  cause  of  the  death  of 
Raymond  should  be  known,  and,  if  possible, 
avenged." 

"Yes,  you  are  right,  but  the  inquest — justice 
here  is  very  harsh,  at  least,  since  that  is  necessary." 

"Was  it  for  that  that  I  was  interrogated?"  asked 
Estelle  in  a  brave  voice. 

"  Precisely,  Madame.  There  were  indications  that 
made  us  suppose  that  the  author  of  that  letter  had 
relations  at  Laval." 

"Raymond  knew  nobody  in  that  town,"  said  Mme. 
Montclar,  again  thrown  into  her  dejection.  "  Is  there 
no  garrison  there  ? 

"Yes;  researches  are  now  being  made  on  that 
point." 

Benoist  did  not  look  from  the  face  of  Estelle. 

"  "What  do  you  think,"  said  she,  "  was  the  subject 
of  that  letter  ?  You  have  some  idea  or  opinion  of 
what  it  contained  2 " 

The  young  man  hesitated  an  instant ;  the  sangfroid 
of  Estelle  exasperated  him. 

"  "We  believe,"  said  he,  "  that  it  contained  a  revela- 
tion, true  or  false,  of  facts  such  that " 

"  An  anonymous  letter  ?" 

"It  is  not  probable.  Raymond  would  have  put  no 
confidence  in  an  anonymous  letter." 

"  "What  could  it  have  said  ? "  cried  Mme.  Mont- 
clar, with  some  excitement.  "  Our  family  is,  thank 


48  tJN  MYSORE. 

Heaven,  without  stain.  If  there  had  been  anything 
I  would  not  have  spoken  of  a  stain,  but  only  of  a  libel 
upon  the  house;  but  no,  we  are  as  white  as  ermine, 
upon  the  side  of  the  de  Beaurands,  as  also  upon  that 
of  the  Yernons,  from  which  came  the  wife  of  my 
brother.  The  Brunaires  are  equally  without  re- 
proach." 

"  Ah,  then  you  have  thought  of  it,"  said  the  look 
of  Benoist  so  clearly  that  she  stopped  short. 

"  My  poor  dear,"said  she,arising  and  seizing  Estelle 
in  her  arms,  "  I  hope  they  shall  not  be  able  to  sully 
your  character  by  their  suppositions.  You  or 
yours " 

"  I  hope  so  too,"said  Estelle,passing  an  arm  around 
the  waist  of  Mme.  Montclar  and  looking  at  Benoist 
at  the  same  time  with  a  haughty  air  that  struck  him 
full  in  the  face.  "Is  it  I,  Monsieur,  whom  they 
accuse  of  having  taken  some  part  in  the  death  of  my 
husband  ? " 

"  Not  yet,"  said  he,  returning  to  her,  defiance  for 
defiance. 

"M.  Benoist,  answer  me,"  said  Mme.  Montclar, 
"  does  any  one  attack  my  niece  ?  " 

"  Not  yet,  Madame,  as  I  have  the  honor  of  speak- 
ing to  you  at  this  moment." 

"But  will  they  attack  her?  " 

'"  It  is  probable.  Many  persons  know  already  that 
there  was  a  letter.  It  is  not  I  who  have  told  them, 
I  assure  you.  They  tried  to  find  out  what  the  letter 
contained,  and  there  is  not  much  difference  among 
their  outrageous  suppositions." 

Estelle  thought,  "yesterday,  Mme.  de  Polrey,  who 
was  my  friend ;  to-day,  this  man  whom  I  do  not 
know " 


UN  MYSTEKE.  49 

"  Monsieur,"  said  she  aloud,  "  have  I  committed 
some  injustice,  some  wrong  without  knowing  it? 
Have  I  offended  somebody  ?  What  interest  can  those 
people,  whom  I  do  not  know,  have  in  destroying  the 
reputation  of  a  woman  ? " 

"  I  do  not  know,  Madame,  as  I  have  already  had  the 
honor  of  saying  to  you.  I  would  have  wished  to 
have  averted  it,  but  it  seems  necessary  tome,  having 
given  my  friendship  to  Raymond  and  also  my  respect 
to  all  who  bear  his  name." 

"Don't  you  fear  anything,  my  daughter,"  said 
Mme.  Montclar,  "if  they  do  accuse  you,  it  is  I  who 
will  defend  you.  Your  sorrow  is  great  enough  with- 
out adding  calumny  to  it.  No  one  will  dare  to  say 
anything  when  they  see  that  I  sustain  your  honor 
by  my  own.  Kiss  me,  my  niece,  and  pick  up  courage. 
I  will  defend  you,  and,  if  need  be,  will  avenge  you. 
Is  it  not  so,  M.  Benoist  ? " 

She  bowed  silently.  Estelle's  eyes  rested  upon  his 
for  an  instant;  they  said:  "  "What  have  I  done  to  you 
that  you  should  be  my  enemy  ? " 

The  look  of  Benoist  answered  her :  ""Why  was  your 
photograph  torn  and  in  the  ashes  ? " 

But  she  did  not  understand,  because  she  had  not 
seen  it. 


CHAPTER  YII. 

Seated  easily  in  a  chair  before  the  little  writing- 
desk  in  her  bed-chamber,  Estelle  thought.  She  had 
seated  herself  to  write  to  some  one,  to  tell  her  sorrow 
and  ask  for  sympathy,  and  at  the  moment  when  she 
was  about  to  draw  out  her  blotting  case,  she  had 
realized  that  she  had  no  one  to  whom  she  could  write. 

In  our  society  the  young  girl  is  not  allowed  to 
have  anything  to  say  in  regard  to  her  own  life;  she 
only  participates  in  that  of  her  parents,  neither 
receiving  nor  making  visits  with  her  mother,  except, 
perhaps,  she  has  friends  who  are  intimate  with  the 
family,  and,  more  than  all  others,  an  orphan  finds 
herself  isolated  if  some  mishap  deprives  her  of  the 
sociability  of  her  immediate  surroundings. 

Estelle,  who  never  really  had  any  other  relations 
than  those  with  the  Baroness  de  Polrey,  suddenly 
became  aware  of  the  fact  that  she  was  absolutely 
alone  in  the  world.  Not  a  woman  to  whom  she 
could  explain  her  suffering,  not  a  man  on  whom  she 
could  count  for  support.  Mme.  Montclar  had 
adopted  her  in  advance  because  she  was  going  to 
become  the  wife  of  her  nephew,  very  soon  her  beau- 
tiful daughter — but  that  friendship  was  of  very 
recent  date  ;  had  not  the  occurrences  changed  it  any  ? 
Not  one  person  to  whom  she  could  tell  her  sorrow, 
could  it  be  true!  Mme.  Montclar  was  the  woman 
with  whom  it  was  the  most  possible  to  speak  openly 
of  the  things  which  tormented  the  young  widow. 
How  could  she  touch  upon  even  the  important  ques- 

b'J 


UN   MYSTERE.  Ol 

tions  which  enveloped  the  tragic  mystery?  Never 
before  had  Estelle  felt  the  need  of  a  support.  Her  sad 
childhood  near  a  sick  and  pre-occupied  mother  had 
accustomed  her  for  a  long  time  to  seek  for  no 
resources  except  in  herself.  An  easy  temper  com- 
pleted by  a  smiling  resignation  formed  the  basis  of 
that  happy  nature.  At  the  convent  she  was  amused 
at  everything,  having  taken  a  taste  for  everything, 
even  to  her  studies,  and  she  showed  herself  to  be  a 
good  comrade  without  the  chilly  exclusiveness  which 
makes  one  friends ;  of  the  kind  that  become  very 
popular  among  her  companions,  she  had  formed 
none  of  those  liaisons  of  youth  which  play  such  a 
role  in  the  opening  of  life.  The  Miles,  de  Polrey 
were  not  firm  enough  to  inspire  in  her  any  warm 
sentiments. 

The  young  girls  among  whom  Estelle  was  the 
eldest  had  appeared  together  in  the  social  world  and 
at  the  same  time  they  were  amused  at  that  which 
seemed  comical  to  them  ;  but  there  was  nothing  pro- 
found in  that  babbling  stream  rolling  over  the  peb- 
bles. 

Mile.  Brunaire  felt  that  once  married  the  three 
companions  would  take  very  different  routes  in 
which  they  would  have  no  opportunity  of  meeting. 
The  Miles,  de  Polrey  took  life  from  the  point  of 
view  of  a  cotillion,  well  directed,  and  assured  them- 
selves that  they  could  not  fail  having  good  partners. 
Estelle  wished  for  something  a  little  more  earnest ; 
she  wished  a  husband  whom  alone  she  could  respect 
until  death.  She  had  almost  found  her  ideal  in  Kay- 
mond  de  Beaurand,  almost,  for  esteem  had  come  im- 
mediately with  a  great  and  warm  sympathy,  love 


52  UN    MYSTERE. 

only  was  lacking.  Estelle  hoped  that  that  would 
come  very  soon.  However,  it  was  not  without  a 
certain  internal  distaste  that  she  accepted  marrying. 
"  She  will  pray,"  said  Valentine  de  Polrey  con- 
temptuously. 

Such  an  idea  never  entered  the  head  of  Estelle. 
It  seemed  to  her  dangerous  to  marry  a  man  whom 
she  was  not  certain  of  some  day  loving,  and  whom, 
consequently,  she  could  not  hope,  in  advance,  of 
loving  alone  and  forever.  It  was  that  which  she 
had  told  very  frankly  to  Mme.  Montclar  when 
that  lady  came  to  ask  her  to  consent.  The  old  lady 
approved  the  delicacy  of  the  scruple ;  but  as  there 
was  not  likely  to  occur  a  like  occasion,  she  had  thrown 
aside  the  objection  of  an  innocent  and  proud  soul. 

"You  have  a  good  heart,  my  dear  child,  for  not 
loving  a  soul  that  you  esteem  and  which  has  for  you 
such  a  tender  passion." 

Estelle  thereupon  consented.  At  that  time  when 
in  the  room  prepared  for  the  young  couple  she  de- 
scended to  the  bottom  of  her  heart  with  an  unpity- 
ing  precision,  she  reproached  herself  bitterly  for 
allowing  herself  to  have  been  won  over  and  for  not 
having  firmly  refused. 

It  was  not  merely  on  account  of  an  egoistic  desire 
that  the  young  woman  abandoned  herself  to  this 
regret;  a  vague  fear,  inspired  by  the  words  of  Theo- 
dore Benoist  troubled  her  deeply.  She  was  sure 
of  being  without  reproach  ;  but  then,  how  was  it  that 
an  accusation  had  been  made  so  strongly  against  her 
that  Raymond  himself  would  rather  die  than  speak 
of  it  to  her?  If  it  had  been  thus,  would  it  not  have 
been  a  hundred  times  better  for  Raymond  himself  to 


UN   MYSTERE.  53 

have  inflicted  upon  that  vicious  man  the  chagrin  of  a 
denunciation  ?  Would  they  have  dared  to  calumniate 
to  that  degree  any  other  than  an  orphan,  alone,  not- 
withstanding her  apparent  surroundings? 

u  He  would  have  lived,  without  doubt,  had  I  not 
become  his  wife,"  thought  Estelle,  sadly.  A  natural 
return  to  herself  made  her  add,  "  And  I  should  not 
have  been  plunged  into  such  an  abyss  of  dangers 
and  sorrows." 

Truly  she  was  alone.  Nothing  of  her  previous 
life  had  followed  her  to  the  de  Beaurand  mansion ; 
the  few  dear  and  familiar  objects  that  she  had 
brought  with  her  had  been  sent  to  the  country, 
where  she  was  to  pass  the  summer  with  her  husband. 
Besides,  had  not  the  smallness  of  their  number  called 
to  her  lips  a  smile,  half  of  pity,  half  of  sadness,  when 
she  saw  them  going  away  ? 

"  I  have  always  lived  in  a  flying  camp,"  said  she 
once  to  Mme.  Montclar ;  "  at  the  convent  I  was  a 
pupil  who  desired  to  do  nothing  but  go ;  in  the  house 
of  Mme.  de  Polrey  I  waited  for  my  marriage — I 
thought  that  Beaurand  would  be  a  permanent 
home." 

Estelle  could  imagine  herself,  at  a  more  or  less 
distant  time,  wandering  about  Europe,  living  at  the 
hotels  of  the  principal  cities,  always  alone;  the  mere 
idea  of  seeing  herself  surrounded  by  interested  flat- 
terers, artificial  women,  disguised  mendicants,  like 
so  many  of  the  others,  rich  in  possessions  and  poor 
in  friends,  inspired  in  her  a  true  horror. 

Had  she  any  enemies?  How  could  a  reasonable 
young  woman,  without  pronounced  opinions,  living 
in  the  same  way  that  all  the  rest  of  the  world  lived, 


54:  UN    MYSTERE. 

have  made  an  enemy  so  powerful,  with  a  desire  to 
produce  such  a  terrible  result  ? 

The  idea  of  calumny  finds  us  always,  when  we  first 
realize  it,  disarmed  and  with  consternation.  The  first 
feeling  is  not  of  indignation,  but  of  stupor.  "  How 
could  anybody  have  hated  me  so  much  ? "  is  the  first 
reflection  of  a  good  and  just  being.  It  seems  impos- 
sible; one  thinks  they  could  not  have  intended  it, 
and  that  the  error  will  be  perceived  and  all  the  repa- 
ration possible  made;  it  takes  time  for  one  to  realize 
that  it  was  for  one's  self,  indeed,  that  it  was  intended. 

Estelle  was  yet  at  that  period  of  stupor.  Another 
idea  began  to  develop  in  her  slightly  over-excited 
mind :  "Why  did  not  Raymond  come  to  me  loyally 
and  speak  to  me  about  it  ?  I  could  so  easily  have 
proved  the  inanity  of  the  calumny." 

Little  by  little  the  one  thought  dominated  over  the 
other.  Raymond  was  good  and  honest;  she  had 
never  seen  any  manifestations  of  unreasonable  anger 
or  of  ridiculous  credulity  in  him  ;  then  how  could  he 
have  worked  with  such  precipitation?  A  stroke  of 
madness,  could  it  be?  But  a  stroke  that  could  not 
have  been  foreseen,  was  that  reasonable? 

Estelle  determined  to  question  Mme.  Montclar 
with  regard  to  it.  The  manner  in  which  she  had 
answered  the  questions  of  M.  Benoist  was  a  guaranty 
for  the  estimation  that  the  excellent  woman  had  of 
him  ;  delicate  and  dangerous  as  the  undertaking  was, 
it  was  necessary.  For  the  honor  of  Estelle  it  was 
necessary  that  the  character  of  Raymond  should  be 
better  known  than  merely  that  of  a  fiance.  She 
closed  her  writing-desk  and  asked  if  Mme.  Montclar 
was  ready  to  receive  her. 


UN   MYSTERE.  55 

Mme.  Montclar  responded  by  going  herself  to  see 
the  young  widow  in  her  own  apartments. 

In  her  terrible  despair,  solitude  perhaps  more  than 
anything  else  weighed  upon  the  poor  woman. 

During  the  last  few  days  the  hubbub  of  a  large 
house  filled  with  workmen,  the  coming  and  the 
going  necessary  to  the  preparations  for  a  great  wed- 
ding, filled  her  mind  and  her  ears ;  the  heavy  silence 
which  had  fallen  upon  the  house  of  mourning  and 
crushed  to  nothingness  material  life,  could  not  do 
otherwise  than  cast  down  the  two  lonely  women 
together  in  a  sorrow  which  they  knew  they  could 
not  betray  to  the  world ;  it  seemed  to  Mme  Mont- 
clar as  an  odious  covering,  something  like  a  garment 
imposed  upon  her  soul  by  sheer  force  and  she  had 
a  great  desire  to  rid  herself  of  it. 

"  You  wish  to  speak  to  me?"  she  said,  accosting 
Estelle. 

"  The  young  woman  seated  herself  easily  in  a 
chair  before  answering.  Many  times  had  she  seen 
Raymond  thus  employ  himself  to  the  pleasure  of 
his  aunt,  and  it  seemed  very  natural  to  thus  replace 
him.  This  tender  attention  drew  to  the  eyes  of 
Mme  Montclar  tears  which  were  quickly  wiped 
away. 

"  Pardon  me,  my  dear  aunt,"  said  Estelle,  "for  a 
question  that  to  you  may  seem  to  be  in  a  great 
degree  presumptuous;  but  in  the  situation  in  which 
we  now  are,  do  you  not  find  it  just  and  reasonable 
to  take  all  possible  means  at  hand  to  clear  up  the 
obscurity  that  envelopes  us  ? " 

"  Speak/'  said  Mme.  Montclar. 

"  Have  you  ever  noticed  any  flightiness  in  your 


56  UN   MYSTERE. 

nephew,  any  singularity  that  would  warrant  you  in 
attributing  his  last  act  to  over  mental  excitement? " 

"Never,"  answered  the  old  lady  with  firmness. 
"  Raymond  had  one  of  the  best  of  balanced  minds 
and  was  one  of  the  most  reasonable  people  you 
could  meet.  His  only  weak  point,  if  such  a  holy 
sentiment  could  be  called  weak,  was  an  extremely 
lively  sensibility  to  all  that  had  any  bearing  upon 
his  father,  whose  tragic  and  premature  death  had 
violently  impressed  him.  As  for  the  rest,  he  had 
the  most  sensible  of  heads  and  calmest  of  minds." 

"His  father,"  said  Estelle,  "I  never  thought  of  that. 
Is  it  not  possible  that  the  letter  had  some  bearing 
upon  some  act  in  the  life  of  his  father  ? " 

Mine.  Montclar  straightened  up,  her  face  on  fire 
and  her  right  hand  raised  with  animation  unusual 
for  her. 

"  I  tell  you  I  could  swear,"  she  said,  "  that  there 
was  nothing  in  the  life  of  my  brother  that  would 
offer  even  a  pretext  for  a  dishonorable  accusation, 
not  one  thing  at  any  time." 

"  But,  my  dear  aunt,  calumny  needs  no  pretext." 

"  Then  Raymond  would  have  lived  to  discover  the 
infamous  calumniator  and  to  kill  him  after  having 
denounced  him.  No,  no,  my  niece,  that  supposition 
is  not  admissible." 

"  Then,"  said  Estelle,  in  a  calm  voice,  "  I  renounce 
it.  Aunt,  you  have  lost  a  nephew  who  was  a  son  to 
you,  but  I,  I  have  lost  all — without  parents,  without 
friends — as  you  have  had  ample  proof,  for  I  received 
cards,  but  not  a  word  that  bore  me  any  affection. 
Raymond  would  have  replaced  all  the  rest  to  me.  I 
came  to  him  in  full  confidence,  he  has  left  me  with- 


UN   MYSTERE.  57 

out  saying  one  word,  of  adieu,  and  I  am  a  thousand 
times  more  alone  than  upon  the  eve  of  my  marriage. 
If  he  had  died  upon  the  eve,  my  dear  aunt,  the 
whole  world  would  have  found  tears  for  me  in  my 
misfortune;  but  now  I  see  around  me  only  coldness, 
hostility  and  enmity.  Pardon  me,  then,  for  trying  to 
find  a  cause  for  this  horrible  catastrophe  which  has 
deprived  me  of  all  happiness,  and  which  menaces 
even  my  honor." 

She  had  spoken  with  great  simplicity.  Meanwhile 
tears  nearly  filled  her  eyes.  Yery  much  affected 
Mme.  Montclar  arose,  took  Estelle  in  her  arms  and 
kissed  her  forehead  with  tenderness. 

"  My  child,"  said  she  to  her,  "  have  confidence  in 
me,  we  will  search  together." 


CHAPTER  YIII. 

"  You  have  found  nothing  ? "  asked  Andre  Bolvin, 
upon  seeing  Benoist  enter,  whose  card  he  had  just 
received. 

"  Absolutely  nothing.  I  came  to  find  out  if  you 
do  not  think  we  were  deceived  after  all,  I  think  we 
shall  have  to  search  elsewhere." 

"Elsewhere,  I  have  searched,"  answered  the 
young  deputy.  "  They  have  been  searching  in  the 
province,  above  all,  where  M.  de  Beaurand  had  rela- 
tions or  comrades.  They  have  searched  in  regi, 
ments,  among  the  men  who  were  under  the  orders 
of  the  Captain,  and  who  might  have  been  near  him. 
They  have  discovered  not  the  least  indications  which 
can  give  us  a  clue." 

"  Did  they  find  nothing  that  would  confirm  you 
in  your  ideas  ? "  insisted  Theodore. 

He  felt  himself  to  be  in  a  peculiar  state  of  mind; 
his  reason,  his  sentiment  of  honor,  his  respect  for 
the  wife  revolted  at  the  thought  that  Madame  de 
Beaurand  could  have  had,  far  or  near,  any  relations 
with  the  death  of  her  husband ;  but,  however,  a 
bizarre  distrust,  purely  instinctive,  arose  in  him  when 
he  saw  her  so  calm  in  appearance,  near  the  warm 
body  of  the  man  whom  she  had  just  married.  It, 
however,  bore  no  weight  toward  giving  a  clue  to  the 
author  of  the  letter,  and  in  assuring  him  that  his 
suspicions  were  but  foolishness.  At  the  same  time, 
he  had  a  strong  desire  to  receive  the  certitude  that 
he  had  not  been  deceived.  Doubt  was  agonizing, 

58 


UN    MYSTERE.  59 

he  would  come  out  of  it  at  any  price,  in  some  way 
or  other,  and  it  was  precisely  that  which  he  did  not 
know  how  to  do. 

"  Nothing  has  proved  to  you  that  that  letter  con- 
tained what  you  supposed  ?"  asked  Benoist,  seeing 
that  Bolvin  had  not  responded  to  his  question. 

"  Frankly,  no,"  answered  the  young  magistrate, 
looking  with  a  pre-occupied  air  at  the  white  paper 
spread  before  him.  "  No ;  but  I  can  not  recover  from 
the  impression  which  the  extraordinary  calmness  of 
Madame  de  Beaurand  made  upon  me.  It  was  so 
unnatural." 

"She  is  a  person  who  has  very  much  control 
over  herself,"  Theodore  observed,  with  some  irri- 
tation. 

"Evidently." 

Bolvin  began  to  whirl  an  ivory  paper  knife,  whose 
evolutions  disturbed  his  interlocutor  very  much.  All 
at  once  he  placed  upon  the  table  the  disturbing 
object. 

"You  see,"  said  he,  "there  are  some  things  which, 
when  once  read  or  heard,  haunt  one,  and  of  which  one 
can  not  be  divested.  When  Henry  IV.  was  assassin- 
ated— pardon  me  for  this  slight  historical  pedantry — 
there  was  a  contemporary  who  wrote  about  Marie 
de  Medicis,  a  very  small  phrase  of  a  dozen  words : 
'  she  was  not  at  all  astonished  by  the  death  of  her 
husband.'  Well,  that  little  phrase  weighed  and  will 
weigh  forever  upon  the  memories  of  the  queen." 

"  Who  was  perhaps  innocent,"  said  Benoist. 

"Perhaps,  and  even  probably.  The  sight  of 
Madame  de  Beaurand  brought  that  idea  to  my  mind, 
and  I  have  not  been  able  to  get  rid  of  it." 


60  UN   MYSTERE. 

"  This  is  not  a  very  scientific  method  of  proced- 
ure," said  Theodore,  rising. 

"  They  have  made  some  very  singular  discoveries 
in  this  way,  thanks  to  like  intuition,"  replied  Bol- 
vin,  who  remained  seated.  "Eemember,  Mon- 
sieur, the  idea  of  a  direct  accusation  is  very  far  from 
me,  but  I  can  not  avoid  the  idea  that  M.  de  Beau- 
rand  was  killed  on  account  of  his  wife." 

"  That  is  no  reason  for  your  thinking  that  she 
knew  what  was  the  cause,"  said  Benoist,  snappishly, 
not  without  a  little  anger. 

"  It  is  true;  but  then  why  was  there  that  calmness 
which  astonished  you  as  much  as  it  did  me  ? " 

The  young  man  did  not  know  what  to  answer. 

"  Adieu,"  said  he, "  1  must  go  since  I  have  nothing 
to  tell  you,  and  you  have  nothing  to  advise  me  upon 
the  subject." 

Bolvin  arose. 

"  M.  Benoist,"  said  he,  "  I  am  very  sorry  to  be 
unable  to  afford  you  any  light  upon  this  subject, 
which  is  so  sadly  obscure;  pardon  me  for  having 
been  unable  to  make  better  success." 

"  You  consider  then  that  the  researches  are  termi- 
nated ? " 

"They  must  be  provisionally — and,  moreover,  I 
should  deliver  to  you  the  papers  which  were  found 
in  the  room  of  your  unfortunate  friend — the  package 
is  not  large,  will  you  take  it  and  give  it  to  the  right 
person  ? " 

"Very  well,"  said  Benoist,  with  a  vague  uneasi- 
ness. 

Bolvin  opened  a  drawer  of  the  writing-desk  and 
took  from  it  a  large  envelope,  which  contained  the 


UN   MYSTERE.  61 

cards  and  the  letters  last  sent  to  Raymond.  Upon 
the  top  of  a  little  file  of  papers  was  the  envelope 
marked  "  Laval ; "  the  deputy  looked  at  it  with  pro. 
found  attention,  and  said,  in  a  tone  full  of  regret : 

"  The  secret  is  there,"  striking  it  lightly  with  his 
fingers;  "but  the  envelope  is  mute.  M.  Benoist, 
would  you  accept  some  advice,  some  advice  of  the 
most  disinterested  sort  ?  Guard  well  that  envelope, 
speak  of  it  to  no  one ;  perhaps,  some  day  the  missing 
letter  will  return  and  be  placed  there  itself  and 
then  you  will  know  all." 

"  Speak  of  it  to  no  one,  not  even  to  Madame  Mont- 
clar?" 

"  It  were  useless;  it  is  very  evident  that  the  poor 
woman  would  be  unable  to  aid  you." 

"  Or  to  Madame  de  Beaurand  ? " 

"  I  advise  you  to  speak  of  it  to  no  one,"  repeated 
the  young  magistrate  with  a  fine  smile  which  seemed 
skeptical. 

"  But  what  if  she  should  be  able  to  recognize  the 
handwriting  ?  If  she  " — 

"  It  is  little  probable  that  she  would  be  able  to 
recognize  a  handwriting  so  like  that  of  all  people 
who  are  not  in  the  habit  of  writing.  Such  styles  of 
calligraphy  disconcert  even  the  efforts  of  experts. 
There  will  always  be  time  to  speak  of  it  to  her,  if 
circumstances  demand  it." 

"  But  "— 

Bolvin  placed  his  first  finger,  very  lightly,  upon 
the  arm  of  Theodore. 

"  Mark  you,"  said  he,  "  that  if  Madame  de  Beau- 
rand  should  know  nothing,  you  will  thus  put  this 
uneasiness  in  her  head  without  profit," 


62  UN   MYSIEItE. 

"But,"  said  Benoist,  "  she  knows  that  they  suspect 
her." 

"Who  told  her  of  it?" 

"  I,  in  a  moment  of  ill-humor.     She  was  then  very 
calm. " 

u  You  have  done  wrong.  Mine,  de  Beaurand  will 
distrust  you. " 

"  I  believe  that  she  will  hate  me,  if  she  does  not 
already, "  murmured  the  young  man. 

"  One  will  not  hinder  the  other,  but  on  the  con- 
trary," remarked  the  deputy,  with  a  smile  which 
was  almost  a  laugh.  "  We  met  in  the  world,  Mon- 
sieur, and  the  present  case  interests  me  more  because 
I  had  a  great  deal  of  sympathy  for  your  friend,  and 
that  is  why  I  had  permitted  myself  to  speak  to  you 
in  a  manner  extra-professional;  take  care  of  the  en- 
velope. I  am  at  your  commands  at  any  time  when 
I  can  be  of  the  least  use  to  you,  however  little  im- 
portance it  may  be.  But  if  you  learn  anything,  you 
will  let  me  know  it. " 

"  Yery  well,"  said  Benoist,  taking  leave  of  him. 
When  he  was  in  the  street,  he  breathed  deeply 
two  or  three  times,  hoping  that  his  restlessness  would 
dissipate  itself  in  the  open  air ;  but  his  desire  was  not 
fulfilled.  As  he  walked  slowly  along  the  bank  of 
the  Seine  he  felt  his  forehead  become  wrinkled  and 
his  mind  become  concentrated.  At  last  he  stopped 
upon  the  quay  and  looked  at  the  admirable  displa}' 
of  stone,  which  he  had  under  his  eyes,  as  though  he 
wished  to  find  there  some  powerful  element  of  dis- 
traction. 

The   beautiful  morning  sun  of  springtime  gilded 
the   poplars  and  the  elnis,   which  made  a  beautiful 


UN   MYSTERE.  63 

wall  of  verdure  upon  the  bank  of  the  water  under  the 
pavilion,  of  Flore:  the  sculpture  of  the  Louvre  took  a 
brilliant  relief  in  that  bright  light,  and  the  foundation 
of  gold,  upon  which  arose  so  strongly  the  Genie  upon 
the  wing  of  the  Antonin  Mercie,  shone  like  an  auriole. 

The  row-boats,  tugs,  and  flat-boats  cut  the  green 
and  pale  water  in  all  directions  as  it  laughed  and 
coursed  through  the  arches  of  the  bridges.  The 
swallows  cried  out  in  their  piercing  calls  and  repeated 
by  striking  with  their  wings;  the  washer- women  sang 
bareheaded  in  the  washing- boats,  and  their  laughter 
was  heard  from  time  to  time  when  the  tumult  of  the 
river  was  slightly  hushed. 

Behind  the  School  of  Fine  Arts  at  the  extremity  of 
the  Pont  du  Carrousel,  flags  floated  upon  the  great  flag- 
staffs  to  announce  an  exposition;  the  carriages,  the  om- 
nibuses intercrossed  each  other  with  an  almost  meth- 
odical animation,  with  that  sort  of  regulated  fever 
that  astonishes  all  strangers  who  see  it  for  the  first 
time.  Hurried  men,  loiterers,  working  women,  old 
savants  with  slow  steps,  employes  loaded  with  pack- 
ages, a  whole  world  of  passers-by,  went  and  came 
without  striking  one  another,  stopping  with  an  in- 
voluntary movement,  some  upon  the  bridge  looking 
at  the  color  of  the  water,  some  upon'  the  quay,  that 
they  might  rest  their  eyes  upon  the  sumptuous  mass 
of  verdure  that  extended  from  the  Royal  Bridge  to 
the  Trocadero,  with  the  Arcde  Triomphe  as  a  crown, 
gilded  like  one  of  the  portals  of  Paradise,  by  the 
triumphant  morning  sun. 

Under  the  plane-trees,  whose  leaves  had  but  just 
begun  to  peep  from  the  buds,  the  book  stalls  at- 
tracted a  busy  public,  similar,  except  for  the  noise, 


64  tnsr  MYSTERE. 

to  the  bees  over  the  bunches  of  thyme.  Benoist 
looked  at  this  dizzying  sight  enviously. 

Those  below  him  were  happy,  while  they  stole 
science  and  art  from  the  books  out  of  the  reach  of 
their  purses,  and  which  handled  a  hundred  times 
finished  by  being  read  from  one  end  to  the  other. 
They  were  not,  like  him,  haunted  by  a  troublesome 
idea,  a  bad  idea,  even  the  hateful  idea  born  of  one 
knows  not  what  absurd  germ.  They  had  candid  and 
good  souls  under  the  clear  sun  of  May,  at  least, 
while  they  plundered  with  nose  close  to  the  half- 
opened  book,  and  he — what  had  he  done  to  deserve 
that  malicious  and  painful  idea  which  Avas  incrusted 
in  his  mind? 

Seeking  for  relief,  where  others  seemed  to  find  it, 
he  took  at  hazard,  from  the  first  open  case,  the  first 
volume  that  fell  under  his  hand.  It  was  an  inept 
book;  he  returned  it  quickly  to  its  place  and  chose 
another  one.  It  was  a  judicial  romance,  whose  title 
was  "  Cherchez  la  Femme  "  (Seek  the  Woman). 

Impatient,  he  returned  it  and  took  a  package  of 
brochures.  His  eyes  met  upon  the  yellow  cover, 
in  words  of  large  letters:  " Les  Causes  Celebres" 
(Celebrated  Cases). 

Decidedly,  chance  had  a  grudge  against  Benoist. 
He  retook  his  road  along  the  quay,  looking  at  the 
trees  of  the  Tuileries,  trying  to  draw  serenity  from 
this  corner  of  Paris,  almost  mute,  almost  motionless, 
where  the  bugle  call  from  the  barracks  of  the 
dragoons  threw  from  time  to  time  a  musical  note 
carried  over  the  poetical  ruins  of  the  Cour  des 
Comptes;  all  at  once  he  asked  himself  where  he  was 
going  and  he  perceived  that  his  feet  were  carrying 
him  toward  the  Rue  de  Lille. 


UN   MYSTERE.  65 

What  am  I  going  to  do  there,  he  said  to  himself, 
angry  at  himself  for  once;  and  inflicting  upon 
himself  moral  reproaches.  He  traversed  \vith  long 
strides  the  road  of  the  Hue  Drouot,  where  his  bachelor 
quarters  were  situated. 


CHAPTER  IX, 

After  the  first  five  days  of  mourning  consecrated 
to  the  distressing  but  inevitable  arrangement  of 
affairs,  Mme.  Montclar  had  proposed  to  Estelle  to 
take  their  departure  for  the  Chateau  de  Beaurand ; 
but  the  young  woman,  with  all  the  discretion  imag- 
inable, expressed  a  firm  desire  not  to  go  there. 

"It  is  enough,  dear  aunt,"  said  she,  "that  I  have 
the  sorrow  of  living  alone  with  you  in  the  hotel  in 
Paris;  here,  where  we  should  both  be,  spare  me  the 
sorrow  of  recommencing  this  trial  in  a  house  with 
which  I  am  not  acquainted  and  where  sorrowful 
emotions  will  no  more  be  spared  you  than  me." 

This  reasoning  was  too  just  for  Mme.  Montclar  to 
refuse  to  accede  to  it. 

From  the  estate  of  her  mother,  Estelle  possessed 
at  some  distance  from  Chartres,  a  country  house, 
important  enough  that  there  she  could  take  great 
comfort,  and  yet  modest  enough  so  that  it  was  not 
necessary  to  have  there  any  considerable  number  of 
servants.  It  was  there  that  the  two  women  resolved 
to  go  during  the  beautiful  season. 

Mme.  de  Beaurand  hud  hoped  to  escape  from 
sorrowful  remembrances  by  leaving  the  hotel  and 
not  going  to  the  Chateau  de  Beaurand.  She  had 
counted  on  the  power  of  evocation  which  character- 
izes certain  beings.  The  bloody  vision  of  Raymond, 
with  the  terrible  problem  it  entailed,  followed  her  in 
her  asylum,  and  moreover,  the  scenes  of  her  child- 
hood, which  she  had  believed  forgotten,  returned 
to  her  mind  with  truly  surprising  distinctness. 

66 


UN   MYSTERE.  67 

Notwithstanding  her  great  desire  to  not  trouble 
in  the  least  what  peace  might  fall  to  the  lot  of  Mme. 
Montclar  after  such  a  terrible  trial,  Estelle  could 
not  hinder  herself  from  confiding  in  her,  one  evening 
as  they  were  walking  together  in  the  garden  near 
the  great  park  upon  the  bank  of  the  Loire. 

It  was  an  old  garden,  almost  a  century  old,  with 
tall  hedges  of  yoke  elm  trees  which  formed  a  sort  of 
labyrinth.  Following  the  sinuous  paths  they  turned 
slowly  in  a  sort  of  helix,  intersected  by  crossing 
paths  which  permitted  them  to  go  out  easily;  a  little 
basin  with  a  feeble  jet  of  water  and  surrounded  with 
banks  occupied  the  center  of  this  melancholy  place, 
charming  and  fresh  during  the  heat  of  midday. 
Since  it  was  not  yet  eight  o'clock,  the  sun  had  not 
quite  set.  At  that  period  of  the  year  when  the  days 
draw  themselves  out,  little  by  little,  the  evenings 
have  the  penetrating  charm  of  things  which  are 
about  to  be  finished.  One  feels  how  small  one's  life 
has  been,  how  precious  are  the  hours  of  amber  light, 
and  with  what  rapidity  the  days  decrease  in  number. 

That  impression,  which  never  appertains  to  youth, 
was  very  strong  with  Mme.  Montclar.  Seated  near 
the  little  basin,  she  looked  at  the  gilded  rays,  which 
warmly  colored  the  neighboring  forest,  decrease  and 
retire  to  the  summits. 

"  Behold  what  has  occurred  once  more,"  said  she, 
"  with  the  warm  sun  of  summer,  which  is  the  half  of 
our  terrestrial  life.  Who  knows,  if  I  shall  be  here  to 
enjoy  it  next  year." 

"  My  good  aunt,"  said  Estelle,  pressing  her  hand, 
"  4o  not  think  of  such  sad  things.  You  are  not  at 
that  age  when  gu.gji  things  pught  tp  preoccupy 
you," 


68  UN    MYSTERE. 

"Who  can  say  thut  he  will  even  be  alive  to-mor- 
row ?  "  replied  the  old  lady,  sadly.  '•  Raymond  upon 
the  threshold  full  of  joy  and  of  life" — 

"  My  dear  aunt,  I  beg  of  you" — 

Mme.  Montclar  responded  by  pressing  Estelle's 
hand  and  remaining  for  a  moment  silent  to  repress 
the  tears  which  came  to  her  eyes.  She  turned 
toward  her  neice  and  said : 

"Tell  me  of  yourself,"  said  she.  "1  love  you 
very  much;  but  I  know  almost  nothing  of  you.  A 
young  fiancee  never  gives  anybody  any  confidences. 
Though  I  have  appreciated  your  self-control,  your 
tact  and  your  goodness  of  soul,  I  can,  however, 
assure  you,  my  niece,  that  I  may  speak  with  truth,  I 
know  almost  nothing  of  you.  Speak  to  me  of  your- 
self. Did  you  live  with  your  mother ;  and  have  you, 
in  any  way,  preserved  any  remembrance  of  her  ? " 

Estelle's  brow  became  wrinkled  and  she  spoke 
with  some  difficulty. 

"  I  remember  my  mother  very  well,"  said  she,  "  it 
was  here  that  I  passed  with  her  the  last  summer  of 
her  life.  I  was  then  eight  years  of  age,  and  at  that 
age,  one  may  receive  impressions  which  are  strong 
and  durable." 

Mme.  Montclar  listened  for  her  to  continue;  but 
Estelle  kept  silent. 

"  And  your  father  ? " 

"  I  have  no  remembrance  of  him.  From  the  date 
which  I  have  read  on  the  civil  acts,  I  could  hardly 
have  been  two  years  old  when  he  died.  He  traveled 
all  the  time.  He  was  a  man,  it  seems,  of  a  restless 
disposition,  who  never  remained  long  in  the  same 
place.  It  was  at  Florence  that  he  died  some  eighteen 
years  ago.  My  mother  died  six  years  after." 


UN   MYSTERE.  69 

"  Poor  child,"  murmured  Mine.  Montclar,  involun- 
tarily, looking  affectionately  at  the  young  woman, 
who  followed  with  her  eye  the  movements  of  the 
thin  jets  of  water." 

"  Poor  child,  yes,  truly,"  answered  Estelle,  in  a  low 
voice,  and  almost  without  inflection,  as  if  the  sight  of 
the  brilliant  drops  from  the  fountain  had  thrown 
her  into  a  sort  of  magnetic  repose.  I  did  not  think 
that  I  was  unhappy;  but  now  I  comprehend  that  I 
was.  This  garden  was  my  domain  and  here  they 
never  troubled  me.  From  six  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing until  nightfall,  I  ran  at  liberty  in  it,  recalled 
only  at  the  noon  hour  by  the  clock,  the  same  which 
sounds  at  present  for  us. 

"  Always  alone,"  asked  Mme.  Montclar,  "  they 
did  not  occupy  themselves  with  you  ? " 

"  So  it  was.  In  the  morning  at  eight  o'clock,  I 
said  good-morning  to  my  mother  in  her  room,  she 
kissed  my  forehead  and  dismissed  me.  At  noon,  we 
took  lunch,  at  seven  o'clock,  we  dined  together ;  she 
hardly  ever  spoke  to  me,  except  to  ask  me  if  I  had 
been  very  good.  I  always  was.  I  do  not  believe 
that  a  child  was  less  cast  down  or  petted  or  spoiled 
with  things  than  I.  I  never  merited  it,  besides  I  was 
at  liberty  to  do  just  as  I  pleased  from  June  till 
November." 

"  And  the  rest  of  the  time  ? " 

"  I  passed  in  the  little  school  in  a  convent,  not  far 
from  our  home  in  Paris.  Moreover,  I  liked  the 
summer.  The  sight  of  the  first  green  leaves  drew  to 
my  eyes  tears  of  joy  and  when  the  pathways  were 
filled  with  dead  leaves,  I  remained  for  hours  motion- 
less, watching  them  fall,  my  heart  broken,  my  soul 


70  UN   MYSTERE. 

in  agony  without  perceiving  that  I  was  chilled  by 
the  north  wind  or  wet  through  by  the  rain.  .All  my 
happiness  went  with  them,  when  those  days  came, 
I  was  scolded  when  I  came  into  the  house." 

"  By  your  mother  ? " 

"  No,  my  mother  never  scolded  me,  it  was  Rosalie, 
her  femme  de  chambre,  who  had  been  my  nursery 
maid  and  who  occupied  herself  with  me." 

"  She  was  very  much  attached  to  you  ? " 

"  Attached  !  No,  I  can  not  say  that.  She  had  for 
me  a  very  peculiar  sentiment.  Certainly,  she  did 
not  love  me,  notwithstanding  she  gave  much  of  her 
care  to  my  welfare.  At  bottom,  I  really  think  she 
detested  me." 

"  Why  ? " 

"  I  do  not  know ;  perhaps,  while  I  was  small,  I  had 
been  very  disagreeable.  It  is  even  very  probable, 
according  to  what  people  have  told  me  ;  they  never 
spoke  to  me  of  iny  childhood." 

Mme.  Montclar  was  greatly  moved  with  pity 
for  this  young  woman  who  had  had  so  few  joys. 

"And  you  never  knew  your  father?  Poor  child. 
Mme.  Brunaire  died  very  young,  did  she  not?" 

"  She  was,  I  think,  thirty  years  old ;  but  she  had 
been  always  sick  since  my  birth  and  they  told  me  that 
she  was  very  much  changed.  However,  such  as  my 
remembrance  of  her  face  is,  she  was  still  very  beau- 
tiful." 

"  Do  you  resemble  her  ? " 

"  Not  in  the  least.  She  was  slender,  pretty  and 
blonde  with  thin  hands,  very  thin — my  poor  mother. 
When  she  was  dead,  Rosalie  took  me  to  see  her.  She 
seemed  no  more  dead  than  while  she  Jived," 


L'X    MYSTERE.  71 

"  They  might  have  spared  you  such  an  emotion. 
What  good  was  it  to  thus  impress  you,"  said 
Mine.  Montclar  indignantly,  "it  was  useless  and 
cruel." 

"  Because  Rosalie  detested  me.  Then  Mme.  de 
Polrey  took  me  to  her  home,  her  first  care  was  to 
ask  of  Rosalie,  if  she  would  not  enter  in  her  service 
in  order  to  attend  me  during  the  vacations.  She 
became  very  angry.  The  Baroness  was  greatly 
astonished." 

"  That  Rosalie  seems  to  me  to  have  been  a  very 
impertinent  person,"  said  Mme.  Montclar. 

"  She  was  spoiled.  Mamma  let  her  do  just  exactly 
as  she  wanted  to.  You  understand  that,  being  so 
sick,  so  feeble,  having  always  need  of  her  services. 
At  bottom,  I  think  that  she  was  almost  afraid. 
Sometimes  she  would  look  at  me  with  such  a  look 
in  her  eyes  that  I  almost  wanted  to  cry  or  else  strike 
Rosalie  with  my  fist." 

"  She  was  then  a  very  wicked  girl  ? " 

"No,  she  was  bizarre,  she  was  rigidly  honest, 
scrupulous  in  her  conscience,  to  keep  it  clear  from 
reproaches  or  anything  and  almost  self-denying." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ? " 

"  Mme.  de  Polrey  told  me  so ;  for  you  think  rightly 
that  I  was  incapable  of  judging  for  myself.  With  a 
narrow  and  cruel  piety  for  herself  as  well  as  for 
others.  I  slept  regularly  in  my  chair  and  she 
would  arouse  me  a  dozen  times  by  shaking  me.  I 
would  have  liked  so  much  more  to  have  slept  in  my 
bed.  To  atone  for  this,  in  the  most  severe  frosts  of 
winter,  she  would  have  no  fire  in  the  room  in  which 
she  slept  near  me ;  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  if 


72  tIN  MYSTERE. 

I  opened  my  eyes,  I  could  see  her,  in  the  morning 
light  in  night  dress  and  bare  feet,  upon  the  waxed 
floor,  saying  her  prayers  upon  her  knees." 

"  Then  you  never  spoke  of  this  to  Raymond  2  " 
said  Mme.  Montclar,  searching  her  memory. 

"  Yes,"  said  she,  with  vi\7acity,  shaking  off  the 
strange  somnolence  that  weighed  upon  her;  "I  told 
Raymond  about  all  the  sad  childhood  I  had,  I  even 
told  him — listen,  it  is  here,  for  I  always  loved  this 
retreat.  As  at  present,  the  sun  had  just  disappeared 
and  all  had  beco'me  dark  very  suddenly,  I  heard  the 
call  and  footstep  of  Rosalie,  who  was  hunting  me  to 
put  me  to  bed,  and  I  amused  myself  by  avoiding  her 
and  thus  gained  a  few  minutes.  Through  the  hedge, 
I  heard  her  mutter  some  words.  I  approached  be- 
hind it  and  I  heard,  '  Cursed  be  the  day  and  cursed 
be  the  night,  damned  be  the  mother,  the  child  and 
the  father.'  I  was  afraid  and  I  ran  up  to  her  to  stop 
her  saying  more.  She  took  me  rudely  in  her  arms 
without  saying  anything  and  took  me  away.  I  was 
hardly  able  to  sleep  during  that  night." 

"  She  must  have  been  insane,"  said  Mme.  Mont- 
clar, rising.  "  What  has  become  of  her?" 

"  I  believe  she  has  returned  to  her  own  country, 
the  lower  part  of  Brittany,  and  that  she  became  a 
member  of  a  religious  community." 

On  turning  the  corner  of  an  alley  in  the  dark 
labyrinth,  they  awakened  a  great  night-bird  which 
flew  away  with  a  plaintive  cry.  Both  of  them  trem- 
bled, and  Mme.  Montclar  took  Estelle's  arm. 

"  You  have  made  me  a  coward  with  your  story," 
said  she.  "  That  which  is  astonishing  is  that  you 
never  become  cowardly." 


UN  MYSTEKE.  73 

"  O,  as  for  me,"  said  the  young  woman,  "  I  have 
been,  and  so  much  so,  that,  finding  there  was  no  use 
in  it,  I  ceased  to  be  so.  One  may  become  accus- 
tomed to  living  alwa}Ts  with  phantoms,  and  Rosalie 
should  be  a  ghost,  at  least." 


CHAPTER  X. 

Many  people  upon  committing  a  reprehensible 
action,  believe  that  they  should  give  themselves  to 
an  almost  irresistible  desire  to  do  something  agree- 
able. Without  desiring  to  pretend  that  this  case 
never  presents  itself,  one  might  well  affirm  that 
the  larger  part  of  dishonest  actions,  or  those  simply 
reprehensible,  committed  each  day  upon  our  globe, 
are  accompanied  by  the  strongest  disgust,  by  the 
most  distressing  struggles  in  those  who  are  the 
authors  and  who  find  themselves  obliged  to  continue 
in  a  life  in  which  they  have  engaged,  without  being 
able  to  deliver  themselves  from  anything  that  they 
do. 

At  the  moment  when  Bolvin  had  so  strongly  ad- 
vised Theodore  Benoist  to  take  care  of  the  envelope, 
the  young  man  found  it  very  natural  to  do  so,  in  fact, 
of  the  friends  of  Raymond,  he  was  the  only  one  who 
was  charged  with  the  duty  of  discovering  the  proba- 
ble causes  of  the  suicide.  The  family  was  no  longer 
in  reality  represented,  except  by  the  widow  and 
Mme.  Montclar ;  the  male  relatives  of  the  family  who 
still  remained  were  either  so  distant  or  else  so  indif- 
ferent that  they  admitted  the  propriety  of  his  doing 
this.  Mme.  Montclar  was  not  in  a  state  of  mind 
capable  of  following  or  of  taking  up  the  search  upon 
her  own  account ;  Mme.  de  Beaurand— 

That  was  the  feeble  point  in  the  argumentation  : 
Mme.  de  Beaurand  should  have  been  the  first  not 
only  to  carry  on  the  research  but  also  to  demand 

74 


UN   MYSTERE.  75 

that  they  who  employed  themselves  with  it,  do  their 
duty  ;  but  Benoist  had  no  desire  to  confide  this  care 
to  Mme.  de  Beaurand. 

He  had  no  desire  to  do  so  and  it  was  that  which 
enraged  him  ;  yet  he  really  believed  that  the  young 
woman  desired  him  to  continue  the  task  which  he 
had  undertaken;  he  thought  it — Why?  For  her? 
He  had  no  need  of  being  summoned  to  carry  on  the 
search  with  all  the  zeal  desirable,  and  more  than 
that  he  had  a  certain  desire  to  know,  which  formed 
a  part  of  his  character.  For  her  then? 

Well,  yes,  for  her.  Was  it  not  his  duty  to  make 
known  to  all  the  world  what  hand,  imprudent  or 
criminal,  had  made  her  a  widow  upon  the  day  of  her 
marriage  ?  And  she  said  nothing,  she  did  not  even 
question.  Mine.  Montclar  had  written  once  or  twice 
to  find  out  with  what  success  the  search  had  been 
carried  on ;  but  Estelle  had  not  given  even  a  sign  of 
life.  It  was  a  very  delicate  thing. 

Delicate,  it  is  true,  for  the  search  had  not  given 
the  answer  to  a  single  question  put  to  it,  and  since 
no  one  had  any  doubt  with  regard  to  the  suicide  of 
Raymond,  it  could  be  only  officious;  those  only 
should  enquire  who  had  interest  in  knowing  the 
moral  cause  of  that  act.  Why  did  not  Estelle  her- 
self inquire?  Who  more  than  she  should  desire  to 
know  the  truth  ? 

Such  a  course  of  reasoning  and  many  others  sim- 
ilar to  it  determined  Raymond  to  take  care  of  the 
envelope.  But  he  had  not  had  it  in  his  possession 
twenty-four  hours  till  he  felt  guilty  for  not  having 
given  it  to  the  person  to  whom  it  legally  belonged, 
and  who  should  be  put  in  possession  of  it,  even 
Mme.  Estelle  de  Beaurand  herself. 


76  UN   MYSTERE. 

He  arose  on  the  morning  of  the  third  day  with 
the  resolution  to  carry  it  to  her  immediately — that 
is,  as  soon  as  he  could  be  admitted. 

"And  then  I  shall  say  nothing  more  of  it,"  he 
said,  with  firmness.  "The  real  truth  is  that  I 
do  not  know  why  1  ever  bothered  my  head  with 
regard  to  a  thing  which  concerns  me  so  little  as  that 
does.  My  friend  commits  suicide  upon  the  day  of 
his  marriage;  that  is  bad,  very  bad.  Being  his 
friend,  I  feel  a  deep  sorrow.  But  why  in  the  devil 
should  I  distress  myself  about  it  on  account  of 
Mme.  de  Beaurand,  with  whom  I  have  hardly  con- 
versed, and  who,  to  me,  is  not  only  extremely  dis- 
agreeable, but  hardly  civil.  What  sentiments  of  dis- 
like could  I  have  for  a  woman  who  has  none  forme? 
Then  why  should  I  bother  myself  with  doing  injury 
to  her?  It  must  be  that  I  have  not  control  of 
myself.  Let  me  end  this,  then,  by  taking  my  proper 
position." 

That  was  to  speak  like  Pallas- Athene  in  person ; 
only  the  morning  mail-carrier  brought  Benoist  a  let- 
ter from  Mme.  Montclar,  which  not  only  said  that 
she  regretted  that  he  had  not  called  upon  them  at 
the  de  Beaurand  mansion  ;  but  also  announced  their 
departure  for  Saumeray,  where  they  would  pass  the 
summer  season,  and  it  invited  him  to  call  upon  them 
should  he  have  any  communication  to  make  to  them, 
or  even  if  he  should  desire  to  do  so. 

The  reading  of  this  letter  threw  Benoist  into  a  fit 
of  anger.  Like  all  those  who  do  not  decide  in  time, 
he  accused  Fate  of  being  against  him,  and  he  apos- 
trophized her  in  very  warm  language. 

To  upbraid  Fate  when  one  is  in  a  passion,  is  of  all 


UN   MYSTERE.  77 

things,  the  most  useless ;  it  excites  one's  nerves,  and, 
besides,  it  is  no  sooner  said  than  it  is  forgotten  by 
her.  Benoist  realized  this  at  the  end  of  an  hour. 
He  perceived  that  it  was  his  fault.  Why  had  he  not 
gone  to  the  Rue  de  Lille  upon  the  same  day  that 
Bolvin  gave  him  the  package?  Instead  of  taking 
the  shortest  way  there,  he  mused  upon  the  bridge 
like  a  loafer  until  he  did  not  realize  where  he  was. 
Only  one  thing  remained  for  him  to  do ;  put  the  let- 
ters in  an  envelope  under  the  direct  orders  that  they 
be  sent  to  Saumeray  that  very  day. 

Yes ;  but  Mme.  Montclar  had  never  heard  of  the 
envelope,  no  more  had  Estelle.  His  most  obvious 
duty  was  to  advise  them  of  the  importance  of  the 
envelope,  but  how  should  he  communicate  it  by 
letter?'  How  should  he  explain  the  silence  that  he 
had  kept  upon  that  point  ? 

Theodore  Benoist  perceived  that  it  was  very  diffi- 
cult for  him  to  constitute  himself  the  judge  of 
instructions,  and  cursed  the  idea  that  he  then  held. 
The  only  thing  that  he  could  then  do  was  to  guard 
the  envelope  and  papers  until  he  should  see  Mme. 
Montclar  and  Estelle.  After  all,  a  delay  would 
change  nothing,  and  during  that  delay,  who  knows 
but  that  they  might  find  a  clue. 

Soothed  by  this  thought,  Benoist  ate  his  dinner, 
took  a  walk,  and  about  four  o'clock  there  came  to 
him  suddenly  an  imperious  desire  to  refresh  his  soul, 
and  he  said  to  himself  that  he  would  see  his  mother. 

Mme.  Benoist  was  a  very  original  person.  The 
daughter  of  a  rich  vintner  of  Anjou,  she  married  a 
vintner  without  fortune,  whose  family  had  been 
ruined  by  the  oidium,  before  the  time  when  a  cruel 


78  UN   MYSTERE. 

fate  had  created  the  phylloxera  in  all  its  perfection. 
She  had  the  pleasure  of  taking  her  fortune  with  her 
to  the  worthy  ruined  fellow  whom  she  knew  to  be  a 
capable  and  intelligent  man.  And,  moreover,  she 
loved  him,  and  that  surmounted  the  best  of  logic. 

Alone  in  all  that  region  they  had  the  courage  to 
sacrifice  their  doubtful  harvest  in  order  to  apply  an 
energetic  treatment,  and  they  succeeded. 

"  My  lady,  one  must  have  other  money  in  order  to 
wait ! "  said  the  people  to  her. 

The  result  was  surprising,  and  within  a  few  years 
the  fortune  of  the  Benoists  had  been  tripled.  An 
only  son  was  born  to  them,  and  said  the  father, "  He 
shall  be  a  soldier." 

He  passed  his  examinations  with  honor  and  was 
sent  to  Saint-Cyr  at  the  same  time  with  Kaymond,  to 
whom  he  was  very  strongly  attached.  The  son  of 
the  general  and  the  son  of  the  vintner  resembled 
each  other  in  many  points  and  differed  in  many 
others,  in  such  a  way  that  their  friendship  augmented 
the  differences  of  their  characters. 

Benoist's  father  being  dead,  the  widow  took  charge 
of  the  investments,  and  they  did  not  go  badly.  Theo- 
dore, after  many  years  of  service  resigned  from  the. 
army,  where  he  became  noted  as  an  officer  of  good 
qualities,  though  not  extraordinarily  called  to  the 
profession,  and  he  began  to  study  scientifically  the 
growth  of  grapes  in  a  manner  to  contend  with  the 
new  enemy  which  had  recently  been  discovered.  It 
was  thus  that  he  passed  his  winters  in  Paris,  return- 
ing to  Youvray  only  when  his  mother  had  need  of 
him. 

Upon  that  day  when  he  had  no  more  plausible 


UN   MYSTERE.  79 

motive  he  had  the  desire  to  see  a  good  face,  to  behold 
the  look  of  two  frank  eyes;  very  strange  things  for  a 
young  man  of  thirty -two  years,  so  ruggedly  schooled. 
'He  had  an  extraordinary  desire  to  be  embraced  and 
fondled  as  in  the  times  when  he  was  a  small  child — 
when  he  had  received  a  blow  from  the  fist  of  some 
comrade,  or  had  been  struck  with  a  stone  by  another. 
Upon  such  occasions  as  that,  one  enters  the  house 
well  washed  and  wiped,  and  one  is  careful  of  speak- 
ing of  one's  fights  before  the  parents ;  but  the  mother 
could  see  come  into  her  fissue  or  her  apron,  before 
the  age  when  he  had  become  a  young  man,  a  little, 
good-for-nothing  head,  which  rubbed  itself  and  rested 
there. 

"  You  are,  then,  hurt  pretty  badly,  my  son,"  says 
the  mother,  who  is  not  a  mother  for  nothing. 

"No,  mamma ;  but  kiss  me,  all  the  same." 

Benoist  perceived  that  in  arranging  properly  he 
might  arrive  at  Vouvray  that  evening.  His  valise 
was  quickly  packed,  and  in  a  short  time  after  he  was 
rolling  toward  Orleans. 

When  he  descended  from  the  car  the  night  was  as 
black  as  ink.  A  few  stars,  lost  in  the  obscure  velvet 
immensity,  showed  him  the  road  which  he  could  have 
followed,  even  with  his  eyes  closed,  and  he  arrived 
at  the  great  gate-way  without  having  struck  his  foot 
upon  a  single  stone  at  the  side  of  the  road. 

He  drew  out  his  key,  which  he  carried  in  prevision 
of  these  late  journeys,  and  opened  the  little  door  and 
entered  the  court.  The  large  watch-dog  recognized 
him,  for  he  was  barking  before  the  kennel  with  a  sat- 
isfied air  and  his  tail  beat  against  the  wood  with  an 
unusual  vehemence. 


80  UN  MYSTEKE. 

"  Yes,  Monsieur  Pollux;  it  is  I;  it's  your  master." 
The  shaggy  head  advanced  to  receive  a  caress,  and 
the  good  watch-dog  re-entered  his  kennel  with  a  for- 
midable bark  of  warning.  A  light  burned  behind 
the  thin  curtains,  and  above  the  kennel  a  window 
was  open.  A  woman's  head,  dressed  like  a  monk's, 
with  a  very  white  bonnet  posed  upon  the  hair,  seemed 
to  detach  itself  from  the  light  back-ground  of  the 
room. 

"  Is  it  you,  Theodore  ? "  said  she,  in  the  most  tran- 
quil manner  possible,  as  if  he  had  just  gone  out  for 
the  evening. 

"  Yes,  mother,  do  not  come  down,  I  will  come  up. 
There  is  no  need  of  a  light." 

"Very  well,"  said  Mme.  Benoist,  closing  the 
window. 

A  moment  later  they  were  at  the  top  of  the  stairs 
in  a  large  hall  and  a  large  cage  cPescalier  whose 
bannisters  and  heavy  billots  of  turned  oak  had  seen 
generations  of  vintagers. 

"  Good  evening,"  said  Benoist,  embracing  his 
mother. 

"  Good  evening,  my  son,"  answered  she,  kissing 
him.  She  had  seized  him  by  the  lapelle  of  his  great 
coat  in  order  to  kiss  him,  for  she  was  very  small  and 
he  did  not  bow  his  head  very  much. 

"  What  has  taken  you  so  suddenly  that  has  made 
you  come? "  said  she  to  him  with  tenderness,  when 
he  was  seated  in  Mme.  Benoist's  room  upon  a  straw 
chair  near  a  round  black  walnut  table  before  two 
candles  which  she  had  lighted  in  their  old  silver 
candlesticks  placed  upon  the  chimney.  "You  are 
not  sick  ? " 


UN   MYSTERE.  81 

"No,  mamma,"  answered  Theodore,  very  much 
embarrassed  about  explaining  the  cause  of  his  re- 
turn. 

His  mother  looked  at  him  with  clear  eyes,  full  of 
perspicacity  and  maternal  tenderness. 

"You  are  not  sick,  are  affairs  going  well?  It 
must  be  that  something  has  gone  wrong,  my  dear 
son  ? " 

No,  mamma,"  responded  the  son,  pressing  to  his 
breast  the  form  of  the  old  lady,  "  but  kiss  me  all 
the  same." 


CHAPTER  XL 

The  vineyard  lay  under  the  hot  sun  upon  the 
hillside.  The  crooked  vine  stocks  extended  their 
little  massive  and  short  arms,  and  from  place  to 
place  a  soft,  white  bud  thrust  itself  through  the 
gray  covering;  below  the  hillside,  the  houses  and 
the  gardens,  the  ranges  of  poplars  made  along  the 
Loire,  a  hedge  of  honor  like  soldiers  at  present  arms. 
The  noble  river  ran  rapidly  as  though  it  had  to 
fill  below,  toward  the  west,  some  duty  unavoidable 
and  pressing;  the  west  wind  ruffled  it's  surface  in 
brilliant  waves,  and  from  time  to  time,  a  great 
sail,  higher  than  the  houses,  describing  the  arc  of  a 
circle,  ascended  the  river.  The  black  hulls  of  the 
boats  cut  the  waves  with  a  rushing  noise,  while  the 
helmsman,  immobile,  leaned  against  the  tiller,  cast- 
ing a  look  at  the  nearing  of  the  bend  of  the  river. 
The  waters  were  high  for  that  season  of  the  year, 
the  trees  in  a  tender  young  green  of  a  still  light 
foliage,  were  mirrored  upon  the  now  gilded  river,  like 
exquisite  transparent  lace.  Theodore  who  was  look- 
ing over  the  vines  with  his  mother,  could  not  avoid 
stopping  to  admire  the  landscape  which  he  had  seen 
a  thousand  times,  at  all  hours  of  the  day,  never  being 
satiated.  "  It  is  beautiful,"  said  he,  while  his  mother 
leaned  upon  a  grapestock  examining  it  with  the  care 
that  a  doctor  would  the  pulse  of  his  patient.  The 
old  lady  rose,  shading  with  her  hand,  eyes  that  had 
never  known  the  need  of  glasses,  and  surveyed  with  a 
look,  the  river  and  it's  banks,  and  answered  : 

82 


UN   MYSTERE.  83 

"  Yes,  it  is  beautiful ;  it  is  a  beautiful  country." 

After  this,  she  continued  her  inspection. 

Her  vineyard  was  not  like  other  vineyards,  it  was 
her  child  and  a  child  saved  at  the  price  of  a  terrible 
struggle.  Mme.  Benoist  felt  herself  to  be  the  mother 
of  her  vineyard  as  much  as  one  might  feel  proud  of 
being  the  mother  of  a  superb  and  delicate  son, 
menaced  by  a  hereditary  disease,  and  above  all  this 
at  the  mercy  of  ordinary  accidents.  She  spoke  little 
and  always  reserved ly,  as  one  will  do  kindnesses  of 
which  one  is  not  exactly  sure.  Some  years  before, 
Theodore  in  order  to  please  her  had  said  that  he  was 
becoming  jealous  of  the  vineyard.  The  old  lady 
answered  him: 

'•  Well,  it  has  given  me  a  great  deal  more  trouble 
than  you  ever  did."  A  large  veil  of  very  fine  linen 
hung  from  the  bonnet,  placed  well  forward  upon 
her  head,  hiding  the  fine  and  regular  features,  the 
black  eyes  lively  and  brilliant,  a  skin  almost  im- 
perceptibly wrinkled  by  the  action  of  the  sun  and 
rain.  Never  had  Mme.  Benoist  worn  any  other  than 
this  bonnet  de  paysanne,  except  when  upon  Sundays 
she  went  to  mass  or  when  she  appeared  dressed  in 
black  silk  and  a  bonnet  of  black  lace.  She  was  a 
paysanne  who  wished  to  remain  a  paysanne,  at  the 
same  time,  when  she  wished,  she  had  the  means  and 
the  heart  of  being  a  very  grand  woman. 

Her  son  looked  at  her,  agitated  by  a  singular  inde- 
cision, not  knowing  whether  he  ought  to  depart  on 
that  day,  now  that  he  had  seen  her,  or  if  it  would 
be  better  to  remain  at  Pressoirs  until  his  ideas  had 
taken  their  proper  course.  This  discontentment 
which  tried  him  rendered  life  difficult  and  full  of 


84  UN    MVSTJCRE. 

many  slight  vexations.  Would  not  the  country  air 
drive  away  all  these  phantoms? 

Mme.  Benoist  rose  with  that  prolonged  strength- 
ening peculiar  to  those  who  stoop  often. 

"  If  heaven  wills,  the  sun  and  the  rain  also,"  said 
she,  "  the  year  will  not  be  a  bad  one.  There  are 
already  some  blades." 

Her  search  satisfied,  she  looked  over  the  magnifi- 
cent hillside,  over  the  red  earth  where  there  did  not 
appear  a  plant,  and  over  the  beautiful  country,  the 
sweet  country  of  Touraine,  then  returned  upon  her 
son,  but  prudently,  looked  carefully  around  him, 
before  definitively  placing  her  eyes  upon  him.  "And 
you,  my  son,"  said  she,  with  a  half  smile,  ''does  the 
year  promise  to  be  equally  good  ?  " 

"  Mamma,"  said  Benoist,  deciding  quickly,  "  I  am 
troubled;  I  am  very  sad;  I  have  lost  one  of  my 
friends  in  a  villainous  way,  by  a  terrible  death,  and 
that  has  brought  care  to  me.  I  have  need  of  seeing 
you  in  order  to  come  into  my  right  mind." 

"  Then  the  Pressoirs  are  dearer  to  my  son  than 
Paris.  You  have  done  well  to  come,"  said  the  old 
lady,  looking  across  the  vines.  "  But  why  do  you 
say  that  your  friend,  died  a  terrible  death?  Did 
some  one  deal  him  a  mortal  wound  ? " 

"  No,  not  that,  mother.     He  killed  himself." 

"  Then  it  was  your  friend  Raymond  de  Beaurand  ?" 
said  the  old  lady,  with  a  secret  pride. 

She  wished  to  remain  one  of  the  common  people; 
but  the  aristocratic  friendships  of  her  son  gave  her 
a  secret  pleasure,  and  made  the  country  people  think 
the  Benoists  were  the  equals  of  the  nobility. 

"  You  know  of  it  ? "  said  Theodore,  surprised. 


UN   MYSTERE.  85 

"  Yes,  I  read  the  paper,"  answered  Madame 
Benoist,  tranquilly,  and  not  without  a  slight  tinge  of 
irony.  "  Since  you  have  been  thrown  into  high 
society  I  read  Figaro.  Should  I  not  know  some- 
thing of  the  people  who  see  my  son  ?" 

Benoist  looked  affectionately  at  his  mother.  They 
had  entered  a  little  grassy  path,  which  led  toward 
the  house,  across  the  garden,  a  real  flower  garden, 
like  that  of  a  cure,  with  rustic  flowers,  some  plates- 
bandes  seemed  to  resemble  squares  of  legumes;  a 
charming  and  odorous  garden,  planted  to  lavender 
and  to  rosemary,  like  those  so  much  depicted  in  the 
old  French  songs. 

"Then,"  answered  Theodore,  "you  are  aware  of 
the  terrible  death  of  my  poor  friend  ? " 

"  Yes,  my  son,  I  understand  something  of  your 
sorrow;  but" — 

The  mother  said  no  more;  her  clear  eyes  spoke  for 
her  and  said  intelligibly: 

"  But  your  face  bears  traces  of  a  greater  torment- 
ing than  that  which  would  come  from  the  death  of 
your  friend,  terrible  as  it  was." 

"  You  see,  mother,  that  some  things  have  occurred, 
some  very  sad  things,  that  make  one  think." 

Mine.  Benoist  made  a  quick  movement,  as  though 
to  stop  him,  and  began  to  walk  with  an  alert  step. 

'fcWhy  did  he  kill  himself?  What  foolishness  of 
youth,  that  appeared  at  such  an  unseemly  time, 
had  he  committed  ? " 

"Oh,  will  you  believe  it?  Beaurand  was  the  very 
personification  of  honor." 

"  A  story  about  his  wife  then— 

"I  do  not  know,"  said  Benoist,  with  a  thoughtful 


86  UN    MYSTERE. 

air.  "A  story  about  his  wife — yes — it  was  probably 
that." 

"  You  do  not  know  ? " 

"  I  know  nothing." 

"  But  you  suspect  ? " 

The  young  man  was  undecided;  all  at  once  he 
determined. 

"  I  am  going  to  tell  you  all,  mother,"  said  he, 
"you  have  such  a  clear  mind,  and  such  good  judg- 
ment, that  I  think  I  shall  be  unable  to  find  a  better 
counselor." 

In  a  few  words  he  recounted  the  story  of  the 
tragedy,  the  course  that  he  had  followed,  his 
last  visit  to  the  deputy,  and  the  possession  of  the 
letters  of  the  deceased. 

"You  have  kept  these  papers  and  the  envelope? 
Why  have  you  not  given  them  to  the  widow  ? " 

Benoist  looked  at  his  mother  with  a  perplexed 
air,  without  answering. 

"  It  is  the  widow  only  who  should  have  those 
papers,  my  son.  You  must  send  them  to  her  at 
once." 

Obviously  embarrassed,  the  young  man  explained 
that  under  the  peculiar  circumstances,  he  had  never 
spoken  to  her  about  the  envelope. 

"But,  my  dear  son,  should  she  not,  before  all 
others,  know  of  these  things?  Is  there  anything 
more  sacred  than  a  widow  ?  Theodore,  I  am  greatly 
astonished  that  you  did  not  think  of  that." 

"  Mother,  she  is  not  a  widow  as  you  are,"  said 
Benoist  with  vivacity. 

"  Do  you  wish  to  say  that  she  is  unworthy  ? " 

"No,  oh  no!  but  she  did  not  love  Beaurand  as 
you  loved  my  father," 


UN    MYSTERE.  87 

"That  makes  no  difference,  my  son.  ]Sfo  one 
knows  what  passes  through  the  heart  of  a  woman 
when  she  sees  lying  before  her  the  body  of  the  man 
whom  she  has  sworn  to  follow,  respect  and  love, 
even  to  the  tomb.  One  must  be  a  woman  to  under- 
stand such  things." 

He  bowed  his  head,  affected,  if  not  convinced. 

"  Do  you  know  what  that  woman  thought  ?  Do 
you  know  what  she  suffered  ?  Do  you  not  see  that 
if  she  loved  her  husband  ever  so  little,  she  must 
have  been  most  cruelly  affected ;  and  if  she  did  not 
love  him,  how  she  must  have  reproached  herself?" 

"  With  what  ?  " 

"  With  not  having  loved  him  enough  to  have 
saved  him  by  her  love  from  a  wrong  that  came  from 
others,"  said  the  mother  with  an  almost  solemn 
gravity.  "Believe  me,  that  woman  has  well  mourned 
the  loss." 

Theodore  did  not  answer.  His  mother  looked  at 
him  without  being  observed.  They  had  arrived  in 
front  of  the  house,  pretty  and  venerable,  antique 
without  decay,  grand  without  ostentation ;  the  home 
of  a  family  which  had  always  been  honorable. 

"  You  do  not  believe  me  then,"  said  Mme.  Be- 
noist.  "Then  you  dislike  that  woman  very  much?" 

"No,"  said  he  with  an  effort ;  "  but  T  cannot  help 
thinking  that  she  is  in  someway  related  to  this  sad 
affair,  and  even  mixed  up  in  the  cause  of  it." 

The  old  lady  straightened  up  and  put  her  hand 
upon  the  shoulder  of  her  son  ;  he  was  tall  and  she 
was  small;  the  browned  hand  was  still  small  in 
spite  of  the  work  of  years,  and  seemed  to  be  very 


88  UN    MYSTERE. 

small  upon  the  somber  background,  but  it  had,  how- 
ever, an  extraordinary  weight. 

"  Never  accuse  a  creature  of  God  unless  you  know 
exactly  of  what  you  are  accusing  it.  Never  think 
ill  of  a  woman  unless  you  are  sure  she  merits  it. 
And  if  that  woman  has  neither  father  nor  mother, 
neither  brothers  nor  a  husband  to  defend  her,  be  then 
still  more  prudent,  my  son,  for  injustice  would  be  a 
crime.  And  one  can  not  imagine  what  the  unfortu- 
nate one  would  suffer  on  account  of  it." 

Theodore  took  the  hand  which  held  him  under  its 
command  and  kissed  it  with  respect.  They  entered 
in  the  great  paved  room,  where  the  coffee  and  milk 
steamed  in  the  polished  brown  earthen  vessels,  as  in 
the  good  old  times.  They  were  alone.  Mme.  Benoist 
waited  upon  her  son,  passing  him  the  plateful  of 
small  buttered  biscuit,  which  he  liked  so  much,  and 
which  were  made  expressly  for  him  whenever  he 
came. 

"Is  the  lady  pretty  ? "  she  asked. 

"  Very  beautiful." 

"  Lovable  ? " 

"  They  say  so." 

"  Is  she  cold  toward  you  ?  " 

"  I  believe  she  detests  me." 

Mme.  Benoist  remained  silent  for  a  moment,  look- 
ing at  her  son.  All  at  once  their  eyes  met ;  those  of 
Theodore  showed  an  anguish  so  sad,  so  hopeless, 
that  his  mother  felt  herself  deeply  affected.  Rising 
from  her  chair,  she  went  to  Benoist  and  put  her 
arms  around  his  neck. 

"  Ah,  my  poor  son,"  said  she  in  a  low  and  broken 
tone,  "you  love  that  woman?" 


UN   MYSTERE.  89 

"  Yes,"  said  lie  in  the  same  tone,  "but  still  I  can 
not  help  thinking  that  she  is  culpable." 

He  hid  his  head  in  the  maternal  bosom ;  the  arms 
that  had  drawn  him  to  her  pressed  him  closer,  and 
in  the  little  folds  of  the  fichu  which  covered  the  noble 
heart,  he  pressed  out  two  large  tears  that  had  risen 
to  his  eyes. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Toward  the  end  of  August  Mrae.  Montclar  became 
weary  of  solitude ;  for,  to  a  woman  who  has  always 
been  in  society,  an  exile  of  four  months  in  the  coun- 
try tete-d-tete  with  a  widow,  is  a  hard  enough  trial. 

In  that  long  reclusion  she  had  opportunity  to  learn 
the  grand  moral  qualities  of  Estelle ;  but  she  also 
learned  that  the  young  woman  did  not  have  the 
same  ideas  of  life  as  had  those  among  whom  she 
lived. 

More  than  once  Moe.  Montclar  had  been  surprised 
to  hear  her  say,  in  the  easiest  manner  possible,  that 
she  had  a  certain  disdain,  or,  at  least,  a  distaste  for 
the  pleasures  and  the  duties  of  which  it  seemed  inad- 
missible to  not  appreciate  the  value. 

"Just  like  Raymond,"  she  would  say  to  herself, 
"  she  has  been  perfectly  schooled,  and  could  conduct 
herself  with  the  utmost  propriety;  but  one  can  see 
that  she  has  not  been  convinced  of  the  necessity  of 
forms  that  she  observes,  and  that  she  very  much  pre- 
fers something  else.  My  poor  nephew  would  have 
been  a  wonder  living  with  her,  and  they  would  have 
lived  like  a  couple  of  wolves  during  the  greater  part 
of  the  year.  But  in  a  man  it  is  excusable.  My 
brother,  General  de  Beaurand,  was  the  same. " 

Having  given  vent  to  these  impressions,  in  this 
little  monologue,  Mme.  Montclar  felt  that  she  ought 
to  go  with  her  niece  to  some  quiet  retreat,  to  the 
seashore,  for  example,  where  there  would  be  no 
social  duties  or  regular  balls,  and  the  thing  was  to 
find  such  a  retreat. 

90 


UN   MYSTERE.  91 

By  the  aid  of  the  Guide  Joanne,  and  her  own 
memory,  Mme.  Montclar  finally  decided  upon  a 
solemn,  quiet  place,  a  refuge  for  the  judiciary,  to 
whom  its  position  afforded  the  opportunity  of  avoid- 
ing the  more  fashionable  places.  The  people  of  the 
country  were  very  deferential  to  their  austere  lords 
with  long  grey  beards,  and  to  ladies  of  pronounced 
age,  with  hair  dressed  in  bonnets  of  lace.  At  such 
places  one  was  assured  of  receiving  the  attention  due 
one  among  a  population  not  yet  contaminated  by  the 
corruptions  of  the  cities,  and  imbued  with  respect 
for  venerable  things. 

That  is  to  say,  Mme.  Montclar  had  chosen  Saint 
Aubin. 

The  arrival  of  two  such  eminently  distinguished 
women,  dressed  in  mourning  and  accompanied  by 
their  waiting  maids,  was  an  event  the  more  noticeable 
because  these  ladies  ate  in  their  own  rooms,  and 
that  no  one  had  any  occasion  whatever  to  speak 
to  them. 

Their  names  were  placed  upon  the  register  of  the 
hotel  and  soon  became  subjects  of  comments ;  but  the 
bathers  at  St.  Aubin  were  so  candid  that  the  names 
raised  no  remembrance  in  their  minds.  The  public 
attention,  accompanied  by  a  marked  consideration, 
attached  to  these  persons  who  had  such  a  grand  air, 
and  they  waited  the  arrival  of  some  bather  better 
informed,  who  could  tell  them  of  that  which  they 
desired  to  know. 

Mme.  Montclar,  however,  returned  to  social  life; 
that  is  to  say,  she  became  visible.  For  a  woman  that 
has  always  lived  surrounded  by  friends,  isolation  is 
premature  death.  The  sight  of  human  faces,  though 


92  UN   MYSTERE. 

void  of  beauty,  was  to  her,  like  fresh  \vater  to  a 
plant  long  exposed  to  the  heat  of  the  sun.  And 
then,  beside  the  curious  bathers,  she  thought  that 
the  month  of  September  could  not  help  bringing  her 
some  other  diversion,  having  written  to  three  or 
four  of  her  friends  to  come  and  be  with  her  at  St. 
Aubin,  she  thought,  at  least,  that  one  or  two  would 
surely  arrive  during  the  month. 

Upon  the  contrary,  Estelle  greatly  enjoyed  this 
absence  from  society.  The  shock  which  she  had 
received,  left  upon  her  durable  traces;  to  the  stupor 
of  the  first  moment  and  to  the  indignation  of  the 
second,  a  sort  of  consternation  had  succeeded.  Was 
it  possible  that  the  world  was  always  so  light  and 
cruel?  She  wished  to  believe  that  that  affair  would 
be  quickly  forgotten  and  that  no  one  would  pay 
more  attention  to  her.  Benoist  only,  she  very  truly 
believed,  continued  to  regard  her  in  that  unquiet  and 
cold  way,  which  had  so  singularly  wounded  her. 
She  reproached  herself,  for  being  troubled  by  that 
idea  and  could  not  hinder  herself  from  always 
thinking  of  it. 

It  was  with  consternation  that  she  knew  herself 
to  be  actually  accused  by  the  grave  man;  and 
accused  of  what?  She  absolutely  did  not  know. 
Her  thought  could  not  go  to  the  bottom  of  the 
odious  suspicion.  She  supposed  that  some  one  had 
told  him  some  love  story  which  he  had  carried  to 
Raymond  and  that  had  occasioned  a  movement  of 
jealousy  so  violent  as  to  make  him  insane.  It  was 
the  only  explanation  that  she  could  find,  and  that 
explanation  in  the  eyes  of  a  stranger,  did  not  lack  a 
certain  plausibility  and  to  her  it  seemed  even  trust* 
worthy. 


UN   MYSTERE.  93 

But  to  her,  to  whom  the  character  and  the  heart 
of  her  fiance,  her  husband  of  a  few  hours,  had  been 
disclosed  without  reserve  in  their  conversations,  she 
knew  well  that  it  was  false,  and  that  Kaymond  had 
no  suspicion  of  her;  she  knew  that,  calumnized,  she 
could  not  be  dear  to  him.  It  was  precisely  that 
unbounded  adoration,  which  had  touched  her:  it 
was  the  confidence,  the  esteem  and  the  recognition 
provoked  by  that  complete  abandonment  to  her 
whole  being,  which  had  given  to  this  young  woman 
the  hope  of  loving  later,  in  her  turn,  him  who  loved 
her  then  so  unselfishly. 

No,  Estelle  had  no  part  in  the  suicide  of  her 
husband,  she  was  certain  of  it,  before  her  con- 
science, which  she  had  a  thousand  times  interrogited. 
Had  she  not  also  told  him  of  all  her  life,  of  her  sad 
childhood  ?  In  the  same  way  that  he  had  opened  up 
the  soul  of  the  man  and  the  soldier  to  her.  Had  she 
not  also  told  him  the  story  of  her  life,  as  a  young 
girl,  so  devoid  of  interest  and  romance,  clear  and 
pure  as  crystal. 

Being  struck  by  the  force  of  the  impossibility,  she 
had  finished  by  believing  that  Raymond  had  been 
the  victim  of  sudden  insanity,  caused  not  by  jealousy, 
but  by  the  extreme  tension  of  his  mind  during  those 
last  days;  if  not  this,  then  what?  This  explanation 
did  not  satisfv  her,  but  allowed  her  pity  to  still  con- 

*•  >  L  t- 

tinue  with  a  profound  tenderness  born  of  the  catas- 
trophy  and  mixed  with  tears.  It  was  because  of 
that,  that  she  disclosed  her  heart  to  no  one,  fearing 
all  illusion,  hating  every  word  upon  the  subject  of 
her  dead  husband,  whose  loss  was  so  sincerely 
mourned. 


94  UN   MYSTEEE. 

Surely  Estelle  loved  him  better  deiul  than  she  had 
loved  him  living;  disengaged  from  the  terrestrial 
element  of  which  she  had  always  a  sort  of  instinctive 
distaste,  her  affection  rested  upon  the  tomb  of  Ray- 
mond like  a  bird  that  could  use  its  wings  no  more. 

It  was  upon  these  high  and  consoling  thoughts  that 
the  young  widow  had  found  a  sort  of  justification  of 
Theodore  Benoist  in  her  eyes.  A  generous  friend- 
ship, as  good  as  ordinary  affections,  such  asEaymond 
alone  could  inspire  with  his  chivalrous  qualities, 
could  have  instigated  the  young  man  to  defend  his 
dead  friend,  to  avenge  him,  if  possible;  standing 
guard  to  a  great  sorrow  and  having  a  secret  detesta- 
tion for  those  who  might  misknow  her  upon  that 
point,  Estelle  was  not  far  from  admiring  him. 

With  a  certain  impatience,  mixed  perhaps  with  a 
little  fever,  she  awaited  the  moment  when  the  rou- 
tine of  worldly  relations  would  bring  Benoist  to  the 
house  of  Mme.  Montclar  where  she  might  impress 
upon  him  with  all  her  force,  the  truth  of  her  inno- 
cence; it  was  impossible  that  a  man  capable  of  being 
the  dearest  friend  of  Raymond  could  remain  insensi- 
ble to  clear  light  and  true  purity.  With  such  a  dis- 
like as  she  held  for  such  a  life,  it  became  an  almost 
intolerable  burden. 

Estelle  was  twenty  years  of  age  and  did  not  doubt 
the  absolute  justness  of  things;  that  faith  placed  in 
her  future  a  vague,  almost  insensible  light,  but  the 
reflection  of  which  softly  colored  her  thoughts. 

The  first  series  of  bathers  of  August  packed  their 
trunks ;  the  corridors  of  the  hotels  were  filled  with 
numberless  little  packages — straw  baskets,  shrimp- 
nets,  folding  chairs,  wicker  baskets — all  bearing  in 


UN   MYSTEKE.  95 

letters,  more  or  less  readable,  the  word  Saint- Aubin 
embroidered,  painted  or  engraved  in  the  \vay  to  make 
them  the  least  odious;  objects  destined  to  make  the 
impatient  mammas  fret  until  the  opening  of  school, 
ruing  the  day  when  their  lack  of  foresight  had  per- 
mitted these  intolerable  souvenirs  to  enter  into  their 
existences. 

The  second  series,  that  of  September,  made  its 
appearance  and  ranged  its  linen  in  the  drawers  left 
empty  by  the  first ;  the  newcomers  installed  them- 
selves at  the  hotel  tables,  interrogating  with  looks 
the  rows  of  attentive  heads,  saluting  with  an  air? 
roguish  or  content,  the  visages  found  well  or  ill 
apropos. 

The  magistrature  assize  was  very  well  represented 
that  year.  In  their  ranks  were  noticeable  some 
"  debout "  come  to  take  care  of  their  advance- 
ment, at  the  same  time  to  attend  to  their  healths. 
Among  those  who  came  was  Andre  Bolvin.  He 
was  an  honest  fellow,  very  much  noted,  full  of 
talent  and  finesse,  but  like  all  those  who  follow  one 
idea,  trusting  wholly  in  it,  his  successes  had  been  a 
little  disappointing,  and  for  some  time  he  had  held 
that  disagreeable  idea  of  having  no  faith  in  inno- 
cence ;  but  upon  pushing  it,  one  mi'ght  make  him 
admit  that  one  ought  to  arrange  it  so  as  to  have 
always  under  the  hand,  a  second  suspect,  in  case  the 
first  should  escape. 

Upon  Sunday  afternoon,  all  the  new  visitors  and 
the  old  ones  that  remained  went  upon  the  seashore, 
and  there  were  recognitions  and  introductions  with 
out  number.  Mme.  Montclar  and  her  niece,  seated 
upon  the  grassy  plat,  back  from  the  beach,  observed 
these  proceedings  with  more  or  less  interest. 


96  UN   MYSTEKE. 

Bolvin  walked  along,  saluting  here,  saluted  there, 
according  to  the  importance  of  the  people.  A  well- 
dressed  lady,  accompanied  by  two  daughters,  smiled 
at  him ;  he  went  to  her,  and  was  immediately 
engrossed. 

"Monsieur  Bolvin,  you  who  know  all,  tell  me 
those  whom  I  do  not  know." 

He  named  over  with  much  complaisance  and  a 
little  cynicism  the  bathers  whom  he  knew.  Mine. 
Barriere  was  charming,  and  really  made  an  ideal 
belle-mere. 

"And  these  and  those?" 

This  singular  fellow  knew  everybody.  At  last  he 
rested  his  eyes  upon  the  s  \vard  where  were  Mme. 
Montclar  and  Estelle. 

"  And  those  ladies,"  said  the  younger  of  the 
Misses  Barriere. 

"  They  are  too  far  away,"  said  the  young  deputy, 
trying  to  distinguish  them  without  being  indiscreet. 

"I  can  tell  you  their  names,"  said  the  elder. 
"  They  are  Mme.  de  Beaurand  and  her  aunt,  Mme. 
Montclar,  the  one  old  and  the  other  young,  both 
are  very  beautiful  and  in  deep  mourning.  Mme. 
Montclar  is  the  younger  is  she  not? " 

Bolvin  made  an  easy  movement,  very  slow,  and 
ceased  to  look  to  that  side. 

"If  you  are  sure  of  their  names,  Mademoiselle, 
the  elder  is  Mme.  Montclar." 

"  Truly  ?  Why  are  they  in  deep  mourning  ? 
They  are  of  the  highest  society,  are  they  not  ? " 

"  Of  the  best  society,"  said  Bolvin  coldly.  "  Mme. 
Montclar  is  the  aunt  of  Mme.  de  Beaurand,  she  was 
the  aunt  of  her  husband." 


UN    MYSTKRE.  97 

"  Mme.  de  Beaurand  is  a  widow  ?  So  young  ! 
Beaurand  !  I  know  that  name.  There  is  a  history. 
Wait!" 

"  Mme.  de.  Beaurand  has  been  a  widow  since  the 
day  of  her  marriage,"  said  Bolvin,  with  an  almost 
unobservable  motion  of  disdain. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  know,  a  suicide.    Oh,  it  was  strange." 

"  An  accident,  my  dear  lady."  said  Bolvin  with  an 
almost  imperceptible  smile. 

He  immediately  repented  for  having  added  that 
word  and  that  smile ;  but  it  was  too  late. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

That  same  evening  all  Saint- Aubin  was  talking  of 
Mme.  de  JBeaurand.  The  occurrence  had  already 
become  so  old  that  it  was  not  fresh  in  all  their 
minds;  but  it  was  not  yet  old  enough  to  have  been 
completely  forgotten,  and  each  one  wished  to  appear 
to  be  equally  well  informed  with  her  neighbor,  and 
remembered  something  that  the  paper  had  said 
about  the  accident. 

Mme.  Montclar  and  her  niece,  while  they  weve 
being  discussed  in  the  groups,  tranquilly  walked 
upon  the  beach,  admiring  the  setting  sun.  Their 
shadows  were  cast  distinctly  upon  the  sand  in  front 
of  the  speakers,  and  when  they  approached  them  a 
halo  of  fire  seemed  to  surround  their  heads. 

The  attention  fixed  upon  them  was  not  kindly 
already  their  grand  air  and  their  reserved  manner 
had  provoked  a  certain  enmity  among  the  good 
women  who  wished  only  to  make  acquaintances  at 
the  resorts  and  who  never  went  bathing,  going  to 
the  resorts  for  that  only. 

Little  by  little  a  slight  shunning  of  the  persons, 
who  took  their  dinners  in  their  own  rooms  in  the 
hotel,  arose,  and  certain  boarders  at  the  hotel  pre- 
tended that  the  wings  of  their  own  fowls  were  not  long 
enough  to  carry  them  so  high,  and  that  was,  indeed, 
sufficient  to  arouse  envious  feelings,  without  adding 
that  of  the  feeling  that  there  were  people  there  who 
payed  higher  prices  for  services  than  did  they. 

When  the  two  women,  in   order  to  enter  their 

08 


UN    MYSTERE.  99 

rooms,  passed  in  front  of  the  troops  of  bathers, 
united  or  scattered  in  groups,  all  eyes,  as  by  the 
same  movement  were  directed  towards  them,  and 
silence  rested  upon  all. 

Surprised,  Estelle  raised  her  eyes  and  encountered 
a  score  of  glances,  of  curiosity  among  the  women, 
and  of  cynicism  among  the  men. 

A  peculiar  feeling  made  her  draw  the  folds  of  her 
cloak  about  her,  as  if  to  defend  herself;  but  she 
passed  haughtily,  with  a  cold  demeanor,  with  the 
disdain  of  a  queen  who  ignores  even  the  existence 
of  her  infamous  subjects.  Mme.  Montclar,  wrho 
happily,  had  her  head  bowed,  saw  nothing  of  this. 

When  they  reached  the  hotel  the  old  lady  turned 
again  to  see  the  setting  of  the  sun ;  Estelle  did  like- 
wise, and  in  the  sweeping  glance  that  she  cast  over 
the  beach  her  eyes  beheld  Andre  Bolvin. 

"  Ah,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  I  understand.  But 
what  right  has  that  man  to  speak  of  me  ? " 

A  dull  anger  made  her  heart  beat  a  little  more 
quickly.  Upon  entering  the  salon  she  saw  through 
the  window  such  a  wonderful  arrangement  of  the 
clouds  that  she  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to 
contemplate  it  again;  her  aunt  followed  her  and 
they  went  to  the  balcony. 

They  were  talking  very  actively  upon  the  beach  ; 
and  some  of  the  conversers  were  but  a  short  dis- 
tance from  the  hotel,  the  air  was  very  clear,  and  the 
sound  of  their  voices  rose  very  distinctly ;  Estelle 
heard  some  words  the  sound  of  which  vibrated  in 
sonorous  syllables  and  very  clearly,  and  she  under- 
stood that  they  were  speakingof  her  and  her  husband. 

(-  Poor  fellow/'  said  one  man?  laughing,  "  perhaps 
be  ha4  to  do  better," 


100  UN    MTSTERE. 

Mine,  de  Beaurand  felt  a  profound  disgust  take 
possession  of  her. 

On  account  of  Raymond  dead  and  herself  living 
and  injured  she  had  a  feeling  of  revolt  that  destroys 
the  peace  of  mind  and  pushes  one  almost  to  hatred. 
At  twenty,  one  has  not  yet  had  time  to  learn  toler- 
ance ;  the  young  woman  condemned  to  herself,  with- 
out recourse,  all  the  women,  all  the  men,  who,  not 
thinking  for  a  moment  that  she  might  be  still 
weeping  for  Raymond  in  his  tomb,  amused  them- 
selves with  the  scandal. 

It  was  Andre  Bolvin  who  had  started  this  fire,  it 
was  through  him  that  they  had  ]earned  of  Estelle ;  he 
had  never  seemed  sympathetic  since  their  short 
interview ;  she  seemed  to  be  seized  with  an  uncon- 
trollable aversion  for  him  while  a  great  dejection 
enveloped  her  like  a  shroud  of  lead. 

"  The  beach  is  animated,  Estelle,"  said  Mme.  JVlont- 
clar,  with  an  astonishing  apropos.  "We  who  do 
not  mix  in  these  little  intrigues  amuse  ourselves  by 
looking  at  them.  It  is  singular.  You  were  never 
before  at  a  watering-place  ?  " 

"Never,  aunt,"  answered  Estelle,  her  eyes  all  the 
time  fixed  upon  the  groups  with  their  heads  together, 
forgetting  all  political  disagreement  in  the  universal 
activity  of  slander,  there  upon  the  sward. 

"This  resembles  a  watering-place  nearly  enough," 
said  the  old  lady,  in  a  placid  tone ;  "  there  is  always 
a  coterie  or  two;  from  our  balcony  we  can  see  them 
all — it  is  very  pleasing.  Besides,  I  hope  that  my 
friend,  Mme.  Daubray,  will  come  next  week ;  she 
will  draw  us  into  the  current,  for  ghe  has  a  wonder* 
ful  tact," 


UN   MYSTEEE.  101 

Estelle,  upon  the  contrary,  had  a  very  strong 
desire  to  go  away,  to  return  jLo  Saumeray,  in  order 
that  she  might  avoid  the  looks  of  those  then  around 
her ;  but  how  could  she  speak  of  it  without,  at  the 
same  time,  speaking  of  Andre  Bolvin  ?  She  held 
such  an  extreme  repugnance  to  introducing  into  her 
conversations  the  remembrance  of  the  death  of  her 
husband,  that  she  preferred  to  keep  silence. 

The  curiosity  which  the  two  women  inspired  ended 
at  the  close  of  two  or  three  days,  without  entirely 
disappearing.  The  arrival  of  some  and  the  depart- 
ure of  others  always  gave  new  points  to  the  com- 
mentaries. The  season,  unhappily  for  Estelle, 
was  admirable,  and  September,  still  more  balmy, 
more  beautiful  than  July,  had  prolonged  the  bathing 
season  beyond  the  ordinary  limits.  At  last  the  friend 
of  Mme.  Montclar  arrived. 

She  was  a  large  woman,  thin  and  withered,  very 
friendly,  very  affable,  one  of  those  persons  whom 
one  meets  inevitably  in  all  houses  where  they  receive 
many,  one  of  those  who  aid  in  doing  the  honors,  pre- 
sent people  to  others,  introduce  the  dancers  to  the 
homely  girl  and  mix  themselves  generally  in  mar- 
riage affairs — without  a  shade  of  judgment,  without 
an  atom  of  malice.  Too  impersonal  to  not  be  good  in 
the  world,  and  too  impressionable  to  have  any  opin- 
ions of  their  own,  they  change  their  minds  according 
to  the  society  with  an  ingenuity  which  at  least  makes 
them  almost  interesting. 

Even  though  she  bore  the  title,  Mme.  Daubray 
was  not  a  friend  to  Mme.  Montclar,  because  the 
exclusive  cares  for  her  family  prevented  her  giving 
much  of  }i§r  friendship  outside,  but  tiie  word  "friend 


102  UN   MYSTERE. 

ship"  designating  in  the  most  correct  manner  the 
relation  slightly  fomaZ.which  the  women  of  the  world 
voluntarily  entertain ;  they  went  together  to  the  thea- 
ter, to  the  springs,  to  the  sea-side  resorts — they  were 
always  together  in  society,  they  saw  each  other  every 
day,  they  spoke  of  the  same  people  and  of  the  same 
happenings.  What  difference  did  it  make  if  at  heart 
they  cared  very  little  for  each  other?  A  widow  and 
unembarrassed,  with  sufficient  income  to  be  inde- 
pendent, M me.  Daubray  was  always  ready  to  come  or 
go,  provided  that  she  were  not  occupied  elsewhere. 
Coming  from  a  tiresome  sojourn  at  the  house  of  the 
sick  relation,  she  was  very  much  pleased  to  see  Mme. 
Montclar,  whom  she  had  not  consoled  in  her  mis- 
fortune, having  been  at  the  time  detained  at  Cannes, 
and  she  showed  a  lively  pleasure  in  making  the 
acquaintance  of  Mme.  de  Beaurand,  so  interesting 
and  so  beautiful.  She  was  ignorant  of  what  was 
said,  not  having  put  her  foot  in  Paris  for  six  months, 
except  to  change  her  winter  clothing  for  summer 
wear. 

After  a  long  conversation  with  Mme.'  Montclar, 
the  new-comer  went  toward  the  beach  to  hear  what 
was  being  said,  and  she  was  not  away  long ;  in  less 
than  twenty  minutes  she  had  met  five  or  six  persons 
of  her  acquaintance.  From  the  balcony,  which  she 
had  hardly  quitted,  Estelle  could  see  her  seated  in 
the  midst  of  a  group  of  which  Mme.  Barriere  was 
one ;  the  young  daughters,  some  distance  away  were 
bathing.  The  conversation  made  good  progress; 
they  got  their  heads  together ;  two  or  three  times 
Estelle  saw  them  cast  curious  looks  toward  the  hotel ; 
surely  they  spoke  of  her. 


UN   MYSTERE.  -  103 

A  horrible  sensation,  that  of  knowing  oneself  to  be 
torn  in  pieces  by  the  beautiful  teeth  of  a  neighbor, 
of  whom  one  can  demand  no  explanation  nor  ask  for 
its  cause ;  to  be  sure  that  one  questions  your  reputa- 
tion, your  honor,  and  to 'be  unable  to  lay  it  to  a  single 
person,  the  evasive  calumny  having  an  anonymous 
author  and  for  authority  that  complacent  word, 
"  they,"  the  accomplice  of  all  perfidiousness,  of  all 
slanders  and  of  all  outrages.  Estelle  knew  that  bit- 
terness and  believed  herself  crushed  with  the  first 
blow.  She  deceived  herself.  At  the  dinner  hour, 
Mme.  Daubray,  who  would  go  to  dinner  with  her 
friend,  returned,  always  smiling,  but  not  without  a 
certain  reserved  look  for  Mme.  de  Beaurand. 

With  her  sensative  impressionability,  she  imme- 
diately perceived  the  coolness  and  herself  retired  in 
a  cold  pride  which  produced  upon  the  new-comer  a 
very  bad  effect.  This  armed  peace  lasted  two  or 
three  days  without  Mme.  Montclar  knowing  it — so 
happy  was  she  in  having  a  companion  according  to 
her  Bastes. 

However,  she  could  not  help  perceiving,  one  fine 
evening,  that  the  relation  between  her  neice  and  her 
friend  were  too  cool  to  be  cordial. 

"  Does  Mme.  Daubray  displease  you?  "  asked  she 
of  Estelle,  who  silently  retired  to  the  balcony  taking 
refuge  in  contemplating  the  horizon. 

"  I  have  no  opinion,  whatever,  of  her,"  answered 
the  young  woman,  upon  re-entering  the  salon.  "  I 
have  seen  her  very  little.  It  is  I,  I  believe,  who 
have  not  had  the  happiness  to  please  her." 

"  "Well,  haven't  you  had  time  enough  jn  which  to 


104  TIN    MYSTEEE. 

become  acquainted  with  her?"  asked  Mme.,Mont- 
clar,  much  surprised. 

Understanding  that  the  moment  had  come  in 
which  to  speak,  notwithstanding  all  the  interest,  all 
the  pity  which  the  old  lady  inspired  in  her,  Estelle 
looked  at  her  softly  and  put  her  beautiful  white 
hand  forward  to  caress  the  hand  put  toward  her. 

"  My  dear  aunt,"  said  she,  "you  have,  until  now, 
extended  to  me  your  protection;  behold  this  is  the 
moment  when  you  shall  find  it  difficult.  I  have 
been  calumned,  you  know  that;  far  from  being 
stopped,  that  calumny  has  gained  headway  and  your 
friend  has  heard  the  echo  of  it,  that  is  all." 

"  Is  it  possible,  Estelle  ? "  cried  Mme.  Montclar, 
terrified. 

"  Ask  your  friend." 

"  You  wish  that  I  should  ask  ? " 

u  I  wish  that  you  should  know,  my  dear  aunt,  that 
which  I  have  endured  for  a  week  and  that  to  which 
you  have  exposed  yourself  in  being  the  chaperon  of 
a  wido\v  such  as  am  I.  I  beg  of  you,  ask  of  her." 

After  a  short  moment  of  hesitation,  the  old  lady 
knocked  at  the  door  of  Mme.  Daubray,  which  was 
situated  upon  the  same  floor. 

"  Tell  me  frankly,  my  dear,"  said  she,  "  have  you 
heard  anything  whatever,  disagreeable,  with  regard 
to  my  niece  ? " 

Her  friend  was  neither  mean  nor  a  deceiver,  she 
understood  that  the  situation  was  serious  and 
responded  affirmatively. 

"Who has  had " 

"  Everybody,"  said  Mme.  Daubray,  innocently. 


CHAPTER  XIT. 

It  was  not  without  great  difficulty  that  Mme. 
Montclar  obtained  the  desired  information  from 
her  friend.  The  worldly  experience  of  Mme.  Dau- 
bray,  as  thorough  as  it  could  be,  had  taught  her 
nothing  of  how  to  act  under  such  circumstances,  and 
every  one  of  her  words  were  literally  torn  from  her 
when  it  was  necessary  to  relate  the  details.  After 
much  work,  the  resume  of  the  information  was 
this :  Estelle  was  accused  of  having  assassinated 
her  husband  upon  the  day  of  their  marriage.  The 
domestics  had  seen  her  come  from  the  chamber  of 
crime,  with  blood  upon  her  gown. 

At  this  revelation,  Mme.  Montclar  let  a  sickly 
laugh  escape  which  it  was  difficult  to  control:  How-, 
ever,  as  she  wTas  a  discreet  person,  she  knew  how  to 
control  her  feelings  and  cut  short  the  nervous  crisis 
which  menaced  her  and  recovered  her  sang  froid  in 
an  instant. 

"  This  is  the  idle  story  that  they  have  told  you," 
said  she  to  Mme.  Daubray,  and  you<  ought  to  place 
no  confidence  in  it.  You,  at  least,  ought  to  have 
been  able  to  ask  me  about  the  facts  of  wrhich  I  know 
more  than  any  other  person  since  I  did  not  leave  my 
niece  from  the  moment  when  we  returned  from  the 
church  until  we  both,  together,  entered  the  room  of 
my  unfortunate  nephew." 

On  that  remembrance  she  was  seized  by  a  new 
emotion  which  she  could  not  control  and  which  gave 
to  her  friend  time  in  which  to  answer. 

105 


UN    MYSTERE. 

'•  But,  my  dear,"  said  the  poor  soul  in  distress,  "  I 
never  believed  this  horrible  story.  Only  put  your- 
self in  my  place.  It  is  extremely  embarrassing  in 
such  direct  communication  with  a  person  of  whom 
everybody : 

Mine.  Montclar,  slightly  weakened,  cut  short  the 
words. 

"  My  neice  is  very  much  distressed  by  being  accused 
by  these  fools,"  said  she  in  a  firm  voice,  without 
judgment  enough  to  know  that  they  add  to  her  sor- 
row. I  assure  you  that  there  is  not  a  word  of  truth 
in  the  story.  If  only  my  poor  nephew — in  a  sudden 
stroke  of  delirium,  without  doubt,  for  it  seems  to  me 
impossible  to  understand  it  otherwise— my  poor  Ray- 
mond shot  himself.  Without  malice  and  without 
inhumanity  this  sad  affair  should  have  passed  as  an 
accident ;  but  then,  when  one  begins  to  believe  what 

a  domestic  says ;  at  least,  my  dear,  I  hope  that 

you  will  take  advantage  of  the  confidence  which  I 
have  just  placed  in  you  to  defend  my  poor  Estelle, 
who  has  truly  too  much  unhappiness." 

"  Be  sure,  my  dear  friend,"  said  Mme.  Daubray, 
very  much  discomfitted,  "  if  I  had  been  able  to  fore- 
see  " 

"  What  would  you  have  done  ? "  asked  Mme.  Mont- 
clar,  a  little  brusquely. 

"  I  would  not  have  come  to  Saint- Aubin,"  retorted 
the  unfortunate  one,  who  was  seated  alone,  in  tears, 
profoundly  pitying  herself  for  her  fate.  "  To  come 
to  Saint- Aubin  in  order  to  breathe  the  sea  air  with 
one's  friends,  and  then  to  find  one's  self  mixed  in  an 
abominable  tale !  It's  enough  to  make  one  sick." 

Mme.  Montclar  returned   to  Estelle    in   a  very 


UN   MYSTEKE.  107 

troubled  state  of  mind.  The  reality  of  the  case  did 
not  permit  discussion.  In  the  eyes  of  the  old  lady 
it  was  odious  even  to  the  point  of  grotesqueness,  and 
the  absurd  side  made  her  think  that  it  could  not  sus- 
tain examination.  A  second  reflection  recalled,  how- 
ever, the  thought  that,  in  general,  people  hardly 
examine  the  probability  of  calumnies ;  they  admit 
them  without  discussion ;  and  it  is  that  which  gives 
them  so  much  weight. 

Mme.  de  Beaurand  awaited  her  aunt  without  fear, 
but  with  a  certain  agitation.  Was  she  going  to  know 
at  last  of  what  she  was  accused  ?  Her  face  had  such 
a  direct  questioning  look  that  Mme.  Montclar  an- 
swered immediately. 

"  My  child,"  said  she,  "they  say,  very  plainly,  that 
you  killed  your  husband." 

Estelle's  face  showed  neither  the  indignation  nor 
the  horror  that  her  aunt  believed  it  would  provoke, 
but  a  disdain  which  touched  the  heart  of  the  old 
lady.  She  took  her  niece  by  the  hands  and  drew 
her  toward  her  with  a  gesture  full  of  nobleness. 

"  Aunt,"  answered  the  young  widow,  "  does  that 
astonish  you?  I  was  not  in  the  least  surprised.  Is 
it  not  necessary  to  foresee  all  when  they  insult  one  ? " 

"  You're  a  brave  girl,"  replied ,  Mme.  Montclar, 
kissing  the  pure  forehead,  which  rose  to  a  level  with 
her  own,  "  but  do  you  know  what  they  have  also 
invented?  You  cannot  guess.  They  pretend  that 
your  robe  was  covered  with  spots  of  blood." 

Estelle  was  seriously  struck  and  looked  at  her  aunt, 
allowing  her  hands  to  fall. 

"  They  say  that  ?  "  said  she,  in  a  strangely  altered 
voice.  "  They  are  right." 


108  UN    MVSTKKE. 

Mme.  Montclar  thought  for  an  instant  that  her 
niece  had  lost  her  mind. 

"They  are  right,"  repeated  the  widow.  "My 
traveling  gown,  that  which  I  wore  that  day,  fell 
into  the  blood  when  I  leaned  over  him.  Ah,"  cried 
she,  hiding  her  face  in  her  two  cold  hands,  "  is  it 
not  enough  to  have  seen  it?  Is  it  necessary  that 
these  wretches  evoke  by  derision  the  remembrance 
of  that  horrible  moment  ?  No,  no;  it  is  too  much. " 

She  had  recoiled  as  if  the  body  of  Eaymond  was 
once  more  before  her. 

"My  niece,"  said  Mme.  Montclar,  whose  throat 
was  choked  with  emotion,  hardly  allowing  the  words 
to  escape,  "  are  you  sure  of  what  you  have  said  ?  " 

"  Yes,  when  we  went  in,  do  you  remember,  I  ran 
to  him,  arid  I  wished  to  raise  him — could  I  have 
thought  of  anything  else  at  that  time?  He  was  my 
husband,  I  had  sworn  to  love  him  and  to  obey  him. 
Ah!  why  was  I  not  taken  with  him!  I  should  have 
suffered  less." 

She  recoiled  once  more,  and  fell  upon  the  couch 
in  the  position  of  veritable  physical  and  mental  tor- 
ture. Upon  the  contrary,  Madame  Montclar  seemed 
to  have  received  all  the  strength  which  Estelle,  so 
long  oppressed,  allowed  to  flow  into  her. 

"Estelle,  hear  me,  that  robe" — 

"Of  gray  silk  which  you  made  me  wear  upon  leav- 
ing, because  Raymond  liked  the  color  so  much.  Yes, 
it  was  soaked  with  blood.  The  whole  hem.  I  did 
not  perceive  it ;  it  was  myfemme  de  chainbre  Betzy 
who  showed  it  to  me  some  hours  after." 

"  What  did  you  do  with  it  ? "  asked  Mme.  Montclar. 

"  I  had  all  that  burned  that  was  stained,  and  the 


UN   MYSTERE.  109 

rest — I  do  not  know  any  more.     I  think  I  gave  it  to 
Betzy.     Oh  !  Eaymond !  Raymond." 

She  wrung  her  hands.  With  a  tenderness  mixed 
with  authority,  her  aunt  seated  hereself  near  her 
and  she  immediately  became  motionless. 

"  Estelle  be  calm.  That  was  an  unhappy  occur- 
rence; but  it  should  not  trouble  such  a  mind  as  yours. 
No  more  should  it  trouble  me  who  did  not  leave 
you  during  the  whole  of  that  horrible  day.  What 
difference  does  it  make  if  you  are  accused  since  I, 
in  the  name  of  the  dead,  assume  the  duty  of  defend- 
ing you,  and  it  is  I  who  should  do  so  ?  " 

The  thought  of  Theodore  Benoist  ran  through 
the  head  of  Estelle  like  an  arrow,  with  a  recrudes- 
cence of  sorrow  she  tore  her  trembling  hands  from, 
those  of  the  old  lady. 

"  Aunt,"  said  she,  a  prey  to  a  terrible  anguish, 
"  you  might  affirm  that  I  did  not  kill  Raymond,  and, 
perhaps  some  one  would  believe  you.  But  you  can 
never  prove  that  he  was  not  killed  on  account  of 
me,  on  account  of  -my  dishonor,  perhaps.  Nobody 
will  be  able  to  prove  that,  and  there  are  those  who 
will  believe  it.  But  in  truth  I  swear  to  you  that  I 
would  rather  have  them  believe  that  I  was  capable 
of  that  than  that  I  married  him  with' a  stained  char- 
acter." 

Estelle's  voice  was  so  poignant,  and  such  a  sad 
sincerity  arose  from  all  her  bruised  self,  that  Mme. 
Montclar  could  no  longer  contain  herself.  And  as 
much  as  she  disliked  extreme  and  passionate  demon- 
strations, she  threw  her  arms  about  Estelle. 

"  My  daughter,  I  have  said  to  you  that  we  should 
search  together,  I  have  but  ill  kept  iny  promise, 


110  UN   MYSTERE. 

I  have  been  feeble  and  indolent.  God  has  pun- 
ished me  for  thus  torturing  you.  But  I  shall 
repair  my  fault,  and  if  there  is  one  person  in  the 
world  who  will  come  to  our  aid  it  is  Theodore 
Benoist." 

Estelle  disengaged  herself  from  the  arms  that  held 
her. 

"  If  you  have  counted  upon  him  you  have  leaned 
upon  a  frail  reed,  my  dear  friend,"  said  she.  "  These 
accuse  me  because  of  inhumanity;  but  he  accuses 
me  because  he  hates  me." 

"  And  why  does  he  hate  you  ? "  asked  Mme.  Mont- 
clar,  with  consternation. 

"  I  do  not  know,  only  he  hates  me,"  replied  Estelle, 
breaking  into  tears. 

The  next  evening  a  charity  concert,  organized  for 
the  benefit  of  a  family  of  fishers,  would  take  place 
in  the  large  hall  of  the  principal  hotel  of  St.  Aubin. 

Everybody  had  promised  to  take  part  in  the  good 
work,  either  as  artists  or  as  spectators,  and  the 
tickets  had  doubled  in  price  in  the  kindly  hands. 
Madame  Barridre  and  her  two  daughters  had  pur- 
chased seats,  with  the  intention  of  selling  them  at 
the  highest  price  possible,  and  they  succeeded  as  they 
hoped  to. 

Andre  Bolvin,  promoted  to  the  rank  of  commis- 
saire,  rendered  to  everybody  an  infinitude  of  little 
services,  and  was  admired  for  his  kindnesses  and  for 
his  happy  faculty  of  being  able  to  get  out  of  difficult 
positions. 

The  hall  was  filled  with  sounds  as  sonorous  as 
those  of  a  German  spinning-top  at  the  moment  when 
Montclar  entered  with  her  niece,  having 


UN   MYSTEKE.  Ill 

paid  a  hundred  francs  for  their  two  seats,  accompa- 
nied by  Madame  Daubray,  who  was  self-em  bar  rassed 
almost  to  extreme  inquietude. 

The  seats  were  numbered.  Estelle  and  her  aunt 
reached  their  chairs  which  were  in  the  first  row ;  the 
second  was  already  occupied  by  Mme.  Barriere  and 
her  daughters  and  a  company  that  they  had  formed. 
Close  to  Mme.  Montclar  were  two  or  three  officials 
of  Saint- Aubin,  who  were  always  invited  to  the  solem- 
nities. 

The  entry  of  Estelle  and  her  aunt  in  their  mourn- 
ing, according  to  the  circumstances,  of  strict  black, 
with  no  affectation  of  crape,  produced  an  extraor- 
dinary sensation ;  the  girls  of  the  country  stretched 
their  necks,  and  even  mounted  upon  the  chairs  to 
see  them.  The  noise  which  arose  upon  their  entry 
subsided  suddenly,  and  the  silence  that  succeeded 
seemed  almost  solemn ;  then  the  murmur  of  voices 
again  arose,  little  by  little,  in  the  hall,  the  aisles  be- 
came clear  and  behind  a  door  one  could  hear  the 
three  regular  taps. 

At  that  moment  Estelle,  who  had  felt  for  some 
time  something  extraordinary,  turned  around  sharply 
and  saw  behind  her  that  the  second  row  of  chairs 
was  entirely  vacant.  The  prudent  company  of  Mme. 
Barriere,  not  less  wise,  had  vacated  theirs,  leaving 
a  vacant  space  significant  enough  between  the  black 
sheep  and  the  rest  of  the  company. 

Mme.  de  Beaurand  did  not  make  a  movement,  nor 
did  she  speak  to  her  aunt.  The  concert  commenced. 
She  endured  her  punishment  patiently  until  the  end  ; 
but  when  the  first  part  had  been  finished,  she  drew 
the  attention  of  Mme.  Montclar  by  a  simple  word 


119  TIN   MYSTERfc. 

murmured  in  a  low  tone.  Both  rose  and  went 
toward  the  door.  Upon  their  way,  the  spectators 
looked  at  them,  giving  them  a  wide  passage.  "With 
deep  silence  under  a  fire  of  eyes,  they  went  through 
the  foolish  crowd  and  returned  to  their  rooms. 
When  Estelle  was  alone  with  Mme.  Montclar,  she 
looked  at  her  without  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  Well,"  said  she,  "do  you  not  think  that  the  duty 
of  Raymond,  since  he  would  not  take  me  with  him, 
was  to  live  to  protect  me  \ " 


CHAPTER  XY. 

The  question  at  that  time  was  simply  this:  Ought 
they  to  retire  in  order  to  avoid  a  new  slander,  or 
ought  they  to  stay  with  their  calumnators,  holding 
them  in  absolute  disdain  ?  Mme.  Monclar  was  of  the 
latter  opinion. 

"  "What  ?  "  said  she,  "  do  you  wish  to  retreat  be- 
fore these  wicked  tongues?  Would  you  pay  them 
the  honor  of  attaching  any  importance  to  their  prat- 
tle? But  my  child,  those  people  to  us  are  nobody. 
Of  what  weight  to  us  is  their  opinion  ?" 

"  They  do  not  exist  to  us,"  said  Estelle  sadly ; 
"  but  we  exist  to  them.  They  disquiet  themselves 
with  that  which  we  do.  They  are  hundreds  and  we 
are  alone." 

';  But  then,"  said  Mme.  Monclar,  with  a  little  irri- 
tation, "  they  say  that  we  are  alone  in  the  world, 
lilce  Prometheus  bound  to  his  rock.  "We  have 
friends  and  when  we  return  to  Paris  will  gather 
them  around  us.  "While  waiting,  it  seems  to  me  that 
Mme.  de  Polrey,  who  has  not  disturbed  herself  on 
account  of  you  during  the  summer,  might  show  you 
some  mark  of  sympathy ;  invite  you  to  her  home." 

Estelle  took  from  her  blotting-case,  a  letter 
received  that  evening  and  gave  it  to  her  aunt. 

In  response  to  a  letter  in  which  her  ex-pupil 
informed  her  of  being  installed  at  Saint-Aubin, 
Mme.  de  Polrey  congratulated  her  upon  having 
found  such  a  quiet  place  where  she  might  termin- 
ate, without  disturbance,  the  first  six  months  of 

113 


114  UN    MYSTERE. 

her  widowhood.  "  I  would  wish  very  much  to  see 
you  at  our  home,"  said  she  in  closing,  "but  our 
nouse  during  the  harvests  will  be  very  full,  and  the 
hunting  opening  at  an  early  hour,  there  will  be  such 
noise  and  movement  as  will  not  be  in  accord  with 
your  recent  mourning.  Say,  however,  to  your  good 
friend  Mme.  Montclar,  that  I  count,  in  compensa- 
tion, upon  both  of  you  being  here  during  the  next 
autumn." 

Before  finishing  the  letter,  the  old  lady  was 
obliged  to  re-adjust  her  eye-glasses  three  or  four 
times ;  her  blood  literally  boiled  in  her  veins,  so 
much  so  that  she  showed  her  anger  at  that  tranquil 
insolence. 

"  In  no  plainer  way  could  one  be  shown  the  door," 
said  she,  returning  the  letter  to  Estelle.  "I  will 
show  her  in  my  turn  that  they  are  wrong  to  thus 
break  with  people  of  whom  they  may  have  need. 
Her  three  daughters  are  not  yet  married,  thank 
Heaven,  and  more  than  once  she  may  wish  to  depend 
on  my  kind  offices.  She  will  find  the  door  closed. 
I'll  answer  for  that.  Then  you  did  show  a  desire  to 
see  her?" 

"  No,"  answered  Estelle, "  but  she  had  such  great 
fear  of  my  visit  that  she  has  taken  this  precaution 
in  advance." 

"  One  could  not  be  better  advised,"  said  Mme. 
Montclar.  "Well,  my  niece,  if  you  will  trust  me, 
we  shall  remain  here  two  or  three  days  more,  in 
order  that  it  may  not  be  said  by  these  persons  that 
they  have  put  us  to  flight,  and  then  we  will  travel 
by  short  days,  making  the  tour  of  Normandy  and 
Brittany,  and  in  October,  when  we  shall  have 


UN    MYSTEEE.  115 

returned  to  Paris,  we  will  take  counsel  of  experienced 
people.  It  would  be  much  too  odious,  if" 

She  did  not  finish  the  phrase.  Estelle  was  seated 
near  her,  and  looked  at  her  with  eyes  full  of  tender- 
ness and  a  kind  of  pity. 

"  You  think  that  I  am  raving  ? "  said  Mrne.  Mont- 
clar,  answering  the  look. 

"I  think,  my  dear  aunt,"  said  the  young  woman, 
"that  you  are  full  of  grandeur  and  goodness  ;  I  said 
to  myself  that  the  wisest  thing  would  be  for  you  to 
disembarrass  yourself  of  me,  to  return  to  your 
friends,  to  your  relations  and  to  your  customary 
habits.  I  am  not  your  niece,  even  though  you  give 
me  that  title.  You  do  not  know  me ;  hardly  as  they 
know  the  young  girls  in  society,  and  thus,  with  no 
right  to  your  kindness,  I  have  thrown  in  your  life 
so  much  sorrow  and  distress  as  I  believe  was  never 
known  before.  If  you  will  permit  me  "- 

"  You  wish  to  enter  a  convent  ? "  interrupted  Mme. 
Montclar. 

"  No,  I  haven't  courage  enough,  I  assure  you," 
answered  Estelle.  a  It  is  too  recently  that  I  termi- 
nated my  education.  I  would  not,  without  pro- 
found discouragement,  return  to  the  impressions  of 
my  childhood.  But  might  I  not  live  alone,  mod- 
estly, as  it  should  be,  in  my  widowhood?" 

"  Of  that  there  can  be  no  question,"  said  the  old 
lady,  with  firmness.  "  The  name  which  you  carry 
would  never  permit  an  independent  nature  like  yours 
to  hurt  itself.  We  have  dreamed  of  being  happy 
parents;  Fate  has  willed  that  this  desire  shall 
become  a  cause  of  sorrow.  Let  us  accept  its  will. 
You  will  remain  near  me,  my  niece,  as  long  as  I 


116  UN    MYSTERE. 

Jive.  After — God  will  provide.  And  then,"  added 
she,  with  a  smile,  in  which  resignation  mixed  with 
pride  in  a  peculiar  manner,  "  I  am  attached  to  you, 
Estelle,  more  than  I  could  have  believed.  I  have 
found  in  you  so  many  of  the  things  which  make  me 
think  of  Raymond,  and  I  do  riot  know  what  else; 
there  are  points  of  contact,  peculiar  affinities 
between  your  nature  and  mine.  In  short,  such  as 
you  are,  I  would  have  loved  to  have  had  you  for  my 
daughter.  Then  speak  no  more  of  quitting  me." 

Estelle  leaned  over  to  the  beautiful  white  hand  of 
her  old  friend  and  placed  upon  it  a  reverential  kiss. 
Mme.  Montclar  pressed  her  in  her  arms,  and  they 
separated  silently. 

Their  programme  was  very  easy  to  realize.  Upon 
the  morning  of  the  next  day  Andre  Bolvin  had 
departed  for  Paris,  very  much  worried  by  the  trick 
of  Mme.  Barriere,  which  he  could  not  have  fore- 
seen. 

That  of  itself  was  very  embarrassing;  her  little 
coup  de  tete  should  never,  in  her  idea,  have  taken 
such  considerable  proportions,  but  she  had  reckoned 
without  the  sheep  of  Panurge,  and  now  she  beheld 
herself  responsible  for  all  that  might  result  from  it. 

Her  elder  daughter,  after  the  departure  of  Bolviu, 
did  not  cease  to  reproach  her,  weeping ;  and,  to  turn 
attention,  she  had  been  obliged  to  organize  long 
walks  to  the  interior  of  the  country  in  order  to 
avoid  the  frequent  meetings  upon  the  seashore. 
That  miserable  trick  has  disconcerted  everybody ;  a 
renewal  of  silent  consideration  made  itself  felt  upon 
the  two  women,  who  left  the  bathers  at  Saint-Aubin 
under  an  impression  of  trouble  and  distress,  almost 
of  remorse. 


UN  MYSTERE.  117 

After  two  or  three  days,  Estelle  liked  the  journey. 
Mme.  Montclar  was  an  excellent  guide ;  avoiding 
useless  fatigues,  she  let  nothing  of  true  interest 
escape ;  she  showed,  besides,  a  sincere  desire  for  dis- 
tracting her  companion.  Upon  her  part,  Estelle  was 
very  apt  at  assimilating  all  new  ideas.  Under  the 
superficial  direction  of  Mme.  de  Polrey,  she  had 
seen  very  few  things,  and  asked  but  to  instruct 
herself.  They  visited  thus  the  old  chateaux,  Roman 
churches,  the  ruins  of  all  sorts  which  are  so  fre- 
quent in  Normandy,  and  journeyed  thus  toward  the 
Mont- Saint-Michel,  sometimes  by  rail,  sometimes  by 
carriage,  following  the  occasion  or  their  fancy. 

One  afternoon  they  were  traveling  in  an  old  two- 
horse  caleche  across  the  great  plain  of  Lessay ;  the 
wonderful  abbey,  of  a  purely  Roman  style,  remained 
behind  them  after  having  received  their  visit,  and 
they  went  toward  Coutances.  The  plain  extended 
around  them  upon  all  sides  covered  with  fleecy  furz 
like  to  a  rough  sea.  Estelle  respired  the  penetrat- 
ing odor  of  the  heather  and  wind  thyme  which 
characterized  the  country. 

"I  do  not  know  why,"  said  she  suddenly,  "I 
think  of  Rosalie,  the  femme  d$  chambre  of  my 
mother ;  her  remembrances  were  of  the  plains,  such 
as  this,  which  I  had  never  seen,  but  of  which  she 
spoke  to  me." 

"  Did  she  live  here  ? "  asked  Mme.  Montclar. 

"  No,  she  was  born  in  Brittany.  I  do  not  know 
where.  I  have  forgotten  it,  for  she  told  me  ;  but  I 
have  forgotten  so  many  things  of  my  childhood.  I 
did  not  wish  to  remember  them." 

The  prairie  was  at  last  passed  and  the  steeples  of 


118  UN   MYSTERE. 

the  cathedral  of  Coutances  arose  like  a  glorious 
apparition  upon  the  heavens  gilded  by  the  setting 
sun.  After  the  unavoidable  preliminaries  of  in- 
stallation in  a  hotel,  Estelle  and  her  aunt  walked 
toward  the  wonderful  church,  one  of  the  most 
perfect  in  the  world. 

Notwithstanding  the  already  advanced  hour,  the 
sacri stain  proposed  that  they  go  immediately  to  the 
summit  of  the  tower  which  crowned  the  transcept, 
in  order  that  they  might  see  the  setting  of  the  sun. 
Mme.  Montclar  being  much  fatigued,  declined,  but 
she  requested  her  niece  to  go,  and  the  young  woman 
obeyed. 

Ascending,  one  after  the  other,  the  narrow  stair- 
cases upon  the  inside  of  the  walls,  she  followed 
her  guide  for  a  long  time.  She  perceived  that  she 
arose  only  when  the  loop  holes  let  filter  upon  the 
steps  a  ray  of  amber  light.  At  last,  all  at  once,  she 
found  herself  upon  a  platform  in  the  open  light.  It 
was  like  a  stroke  of  intoxication  when  she  came  into 
the  open  azure.  To  the  left,  nothing  but  a  balus- 
trade of  broken  stones;  under  her  feet,  the  town  al- 
residy  half-hidden  in  the  dusk  of  the  twilight ;  above, 
the  delicate  blue  heavens,  of  an  exquisite  purity;  all 
around,  a  darkened  horizon,  confounding  the  trees 
and  the  clouds  in  an  indistinct  line,  and  before  her, 
to  the  west,  a  fiery  furnace,  where  the  clouds  were 
gilded  like  burning  glass ;  the  sea  surrounded  by 
black  rocks  which  were  the  isles,  and  all  bathed  in 
a  purple  and  violet  light  which  slowly  changed  its 
place  and  color. 

A  tender  melancholy  overcame  the  soul  of  Estelle, 
and  she  thought  of  the  Indian  widows  who  burned 


UN    MYSTERE.  119 

upon  the  bodies  of  their  husbands;  a  large  island 
upon  the  horizon  seemed  to  her  like  a  gigantic 
mausoleum.  "Would  she  not  have  liked  to  have  dis- 
appeared with  .Raymond  in  this  beautiful  mingling 
of  the  sea  and  sky?  Without  doubt,  she  did  not 
love  him,  but  then  do  widows  who  are  almost  child- 
ren know  what  love  is? 

"  No  more  for  me,"  thought  she  with  a  kind  of 
pity  for  herself. 

She  filled  her  heart  with  this  strange  spectacle ; 
but  she  must  go  for  fear  of  being  imprisoned  by  the 
darkness  in  the  labyrinth  of  staircases ;  she  turned 
away  with  a  feeling  of  regret,  and  after  a  descent  that 
to  her  seemed  almost  eternal,  she  reached  the  nave. 

After  coming  from  the  splendors  of  the  sky,  the 
church  seemed  dark.  Estelle  could  hardly  distin- 
guish Mine.  Montclar  who  was  half  sunken  in  a 
chair.  In  a  window  of  the  sixteenth  century,  illumi- 
nated by  a  reflection  which  one  might  have  said  was 
an  aurora,  was  distinctly  shown  a  group  of  souls  in 
agony.  Naked,  their  hands  joined,  at  the  door  of 
Paradise,  their  emaciated  faces  depicting  such  inten- 
sity of  prayer  and  agon}^  that  the  soul  of  Estelle  was 
crushed. 

As  she  lowered  her  eyes,  she  sa'w  a  form  kneeling 
a  few  steps  in  front  of  her. 

It  was  an  aged  form ;  in  the  style  of  the  Bretons 
and  the  Normans,  she  was  dressed  entirely  in  a 
mantle  of  a  thousand  pleats,  like  the  widows  and  the 
orphans.  The  pleated  capuchon,  deep  and  black, 
covered  her  head  and  half  fell  upon  her  forehead. 
Struck  by  the  originality  of  the  costume  half  moni- 
chal  and  of  an  imposing  solemnity,  Estelle  stopped. 


120  UN   MYSTERE. 

The  face  draped  in  darkness  looked  up,  and  Estelle 
saw  two  black  eyes  fix  themselves  upon  her  and  her 
mourning  dress.  The  expression  of  those  eyes,  upon 
beholding  her,  became  all  at  once  tragical,  the 
features  became  contracted  and  similar  to  these  of 
those  wretched  souls  of  whom  Mme.  de  Beaurand 
had  so  much  horror.  The  hour  and  the  place  filled 
her  with  a  sort  of  sacred  terror,  and  as  she  tried  to 
read  that  sad  physiognomy,  a  half -forgotten  face 
arose  in  her  memory. 

"  Eosalie,"  said  she  extending  her  hand. 

The  woman  clothed  in  black  glided  between  the 
chairs  and  disappeared  in  the  gloom,  without  answer- 
ing. Estelle  passed  her  hand  over  her  hallucinated 
eyes  and  returned  to  her  aunt,  whom  she  led  out, 
into  the  open  air. 

"You  seem  to  be  troubled,"  said  Mme.  Mont- 
clar  to  her. 

"I  thought  that  I  just  saw  thefemme  de  chambre 
of  my  mother,"  said  she,  "but  perhaps  it  was  only  a 
vision." 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

The  next  day  a  slight  rain  fell  which  prevented  all 
excursions. 

Estelle  went  to  the  cathedral  and  submitted  the 
sacristain  to  a  rigorous  examination.  Who  was 
that  woman?  Did  she  live  at  Coutances  ?  Does  she 
attend  the  church  ? 

The  good  man  knew  absolutely  nothing ;  he  had 
not  noticed  her  more  than  any  other ;  many  relig- 
ious women  came  to  the  church  in  fulfilment  of 
some  vow,  and  they  go  away  immediately  ;  he  did 
not  know  them.  And  Estelle  could  learn  nothing. 

However,  upon  reflecting  at  leisure,  she  became 
convinced  that  she  had  neither  been  deceived  nor 
had  she  lost  her  mind  ;  it  was  really  Rosalie  whom 
she  had  seen.  For  truly  the  habits  of  that  woman 
might  have  taken  her  to  Coutances  upon  a  pilgrim- 
age;  but  then  why  that  expression  upon  her  face? 
Estelle  was  sure  of  having  been  recognized,  and 
a  coincidence  of  resemblances  could  not  have  pro- 
duced such  a  result.  Was  it  remorse  for  having 
tormented  her  unhappy  childhood  ?  The  supposition 
seemed  to  be  possible,  and  it  was  there  that  the 
young  woman  stopped,  regretting  not  having  spoken 
with  that  girl.  However,  now  that  her  past  life 
appeared  under  a  new  light  she  wished  to  interrogate 
Rosalie  upon  a  thousand  details  concerning  her 
mother  and  herself;  she  left  Coutances  with  the 
regret  which  one  bears  upon  leaving  remarkable 

things,  and  the  sadness  which  had  left  her  for  a  few 

121 


122  UN    MYSTERE. 

days  returned  and  beat  heavily  upon  her.  After 
having  patiently  awaited  a  change  in  the  weather 
!-.r  three  days,  the  two  \\omen,  in  order  to  cut  their 
journey  short,  returned  to  Paris ;  there,  at  least, 
they  should  not  feel  themselves  transpierced  by  the 
frosty  humidity  of  the  equinoctial  winds. 

Upon  their  return,  Mine.  Montclar  informed  her- 
self upon  the  whereabouts  of  those  friends  who 
were  in  the  city  or  in  its  immediate  vicinity ;  the 
number  of  which  was  not  large.  She  managed, 
however,  to  see  them.  They  gave  her  the  most 
cordial  welcome  and  promised  to  visit  her.  With 
regard  to  Mme.  de  Beaurand,  their  attitude  was 
different,  according  to  their  surroundings  and  tem- 
peraments. At  certain  houses,  they  informed  them- 
selves about  her  with  a  poorly  dissimulated  curiosity; 
in  others,  they  affected  to  speak  as  little  of  her  as 
possible,  and  in  all,  Mme.  Montclar  obtained  the 
certitude  that  her  niece  was  gravely  compromised. 

"Listen  to  me,"  said  she  to  one  of  her  oldest 
friends  whom  she  went  to  see  at  Saint-Germain. 
"  You  will  have  to  take  me  as  I  am,  you  know,  I 
believe  you  have  learned  that,  during  the  forty  odd 
years  that  we  have  known  each  other.  "Well,  I  am 
with  my  niece  and  for  my  niece  and  I  shall  remain 
so  until  the  end.  Then,  if  you  care  for  me  you  will 
have  to  arrange  for  us  two  together." 

"My  dear  friend,"  answered  she,  "I  will  speak 
with  a  frankness  equal  to  yours.  If  I  were  alone,  I 
would  also  brave  the  world  by  your  side,  but  I  have 
a  married  son  and  a  son-in-law,  and  it  would  be 
impossible  for  me  to  expose  their  two  wives  to  the 
annoyance  which  one  may  see  would  be  brought 


UN   MYSTERE.  123 

upon  them.  I  will  go  to  see  you  alone,  with  much 
pleasure;  I  will  go  upon  your  day  in  the  after- 
noon ;  but  do  not  exact  of  me  that  I  shall  take  my 
daughters  or  my  sons." 

"  I  understand,"  replied  Mme.  Montclar,  "  a  year 
ago,  or  only  six  months  ago,  such  language  would 
have  disgusted  me.  Since  then  I  have  acquired 
very  much  indulgence  for  the  children— -faiblesses, 
and  I  ought  to  say,  that  it  is  Mme.  de  Beaurand 
who  has  taught  me  that  virtue.  And,  moreover, 
I  do  not  become  angry  with  you  for  having 
said  to  me  what  you  have  just  said.  I  thank  you 
even  for  reserving  for  me  so  much  esteem,  for  not 
putting  me  aside ;  but  even  that  should  not  hinder 
me  from  thinking  that  at  my  age,  you  believe 
ms  foolish  enough  to  infect  myself  with  the  presence 
of  an  unworthy  woman,  unworthy  of  my  esteem, 
for  if  I  understand,  at  bottom,  that  is  your  thought." 

After  some  circumlocutions  she  admitted  it. 

"  "Well,  my  dear,  I  did  not  think,  assuredly,  that 
such  a  catastrophe  would  ever  come  to  your  family; 
but  since  such  is  the  case,  I  should  most  sincerely 
hope  you  may  have  pleasant  associations  with  a 
woman  like  Mme.  de  Beaurand.,  And  now,  when- 
ever you  will  have  the  kindness  to  call,  you  shall 
be  always  welcome." 

After  two  or  three  visits  of  this  sort,  Mme.  Mont- 
clar had  made  a  very  pretty  collection  of  persons 
disposed  to  mourn  with  her;  that  which  is  one  of 
the  worst  forms  of  unkinduess. 

She  did  not  become  dejected,  being  endowed  with 
a  character  at  once  despotic  and  chivalrous  which 
gave  to  her  in  such  trying  circumstances  a  heroic  and 
dignified  attitude,  at  once,  worthy  of  her  race, 


124  UN    MYSTfiEK. 

However,  she  at  once  felt  the  weakness  of  her 
situation.  In  a  family  in  which  there  was  but  one 
male  descendant,  if  he  should  die,  all  would  be 
wrecked  and  it  was  that  which  happened  to  the 
Beaurands,  even  without  the  formidable  manner  in 
which  Kaymond  had  disappeared.  In  order  to  sus- 
tain two  isolated  women,  the  arm  of  a  man  was  neces- 
sary, and  that  man  did  not  exist.  Then,  at  the  end  of 
her  resources,  and  without  having  consulted  Estelle, 
who  had  never  had  this  idea,  Mme.  Montclar  wrote 
a  long  letter  to  Theodore  Benoist,  asking  him  to 
come  that  she  might  speak  to  him. 

"You  have  been,"  said  she  to  him,  "the  best 
friend  to  Raymond.  With  that  title,  I  ask  you  to 
come  to  the  succor  of  her  who  replaced  his  mother 
and  of  his  widow."  "When  he  received  that  letter, 
Benoist  was  in  full  harvest.  An  exceptional  harvest 
was  upon  them  like  an  amber  river,  the  ripe  grapes  in 
the  presses  made  wine  without  effort ;  the  vats  filled 
full  of  the  new  wine  the  odor  of  which  entered  even 
to  the  hillside,  where  the  robust  fellows  and  the 
pretty  girls  were  gathering  the  fruit. 

After  having  thought  for  about  half  an  hour, 
Theodore  with  the  letter  in  his  hand  went  to  find 
his  mother  who  was  seated  outside  watching  the 
vintagers  go  toward  the  pressing  cellars,  carrying 
upon  their  heads,  baskets  of  grapes,  according  to 
the  old  idea. 

"Mamma,"  said  he,  with  that  soft  appellation  of 
childhood  which  did  not  seem  strange  upon  the  lips 
of  the  man  when  he  came  to  ask  confidence  of  her, 
"will  you  read  this?" 

The  old  vintner  cast  a  quick  look  upon  her  son 


UN   MYSTEKE.  125 

who  turned  his  head,  and  read  the  letter  slowly 
with  care.  The  large  easy  writing  of  Mme.  Mont- 
clar  was  not  difficult  for  her  to  decipher,  but  she 
wished  to  understand  even  the  smallest  words. 

"  I  believe,  my  son,"  said  she,  upon  returning  the 
paper  to  him,  "that  with  them  there  are  great 
difficulties  for  you ;  but  you  know  what  I  have  said, 
I  do  not  believe  myself  that  the  widow  of  your 
dead  friend  is  a  criminal.  Her  aunt  does  not  believe 
it  any  more  than  I,  and  I  believe  that  she  and  I  are 
right.  Even  though  we  are  in  the  middle  of  our 
work  and  you  are  absolutely  needed  here,  go  and 
see  what  you  can  do  and  do  what  you  can.  These 
ladies  are  alone  in  the  world,  worse  than  alone,  since 
the  world  looks  upon  them  with  ill  will.  Be  a  man 
and  above  everything  else  be  just.  And  then,  return 
from  there  when  you  can,  for  there  is  much  work 
here  and  I  am  too  old  to  do  it  alone  as  I  once  did." 
She  looked  at  the  vintagers,  who  in  an  uninterrupted 
train  were  mounting  toward  the  cellar  and  descend- 
ing with  quick  steps,  with  laughter  and  with  pleas- 
antries. 

"I  understand  you,  mamma,"  said  Theodore, 
leaning  over  her  with  tenderness,  "and  I  thank 
you." 

"  Wait  a  moment,  my  son  ;  yet  one  word  more.  I 
have  said  that  there  would  be  much  trouble  for  you 
there ;  there  will  be  in  more  than  one  way.  That 
lady  is  of  a  high  family,  and  can  care  nothing  for 
a  vintner." 

"  Well,  my  mother,"  interrupted  Benoist,  with  a 
shade  of  rudeness,  "  it  isn't  a  question  of  such  things. 
Have  I  not  told  you  that  I  can  not  be  drawn  from 


126  UN   MYSTEKE. 

my  idea,  and  she  knows  it  well.  I  can  not  force 
myself  to  like  her,  and  I  am  sure  that  she  detests 
me." 

"  Well,  my  son,  carry  the  load.  And  if  it  prove  too 
heavy,  come  and  bring  it  to  your  old  mother.  She 
will  not  be  able  to  console  you  in  such  sorrows ;  no 
one  could  console  you,  but  she  will  love  you  and 
that  will  help  you." 

In  the  presence  of  all  these  people,  young  men 
and  women  so  happy,  they  could  not  kiss  each  other, 
they  exchanged  a  long  look  full  of  tender  and  pro- 
found thoughts. 

"  Then,  I  will  take  the  train  at  five  o'clock,"  said 
Theodore ;  "  it  is  now  four ;  I  have  yet  time." 

He  went  to  the  house,  and  shortly  afterward  came 
out  ready  for  the  journey.  He  had  taken  off  the 
suit  of  red  velvet,  the  dress  of  the  chasseur  or  pro- 
prietor, and  appeared  correctly  dressed,  as  all  Paris- 
ians demanded. 

"  I  like  you  better  as  a  vintner,"  said  his  mother, 
looking  at  him.  "  You  have  the  air  of  a  Monsieur; 
otherwise,  you  are  my  son,  a  vintner,  like  your 
.father." 

"  In  any  dress,  my  mother,  I  am  your  loving  son," 
said  he,  kissing  her,  this  time  ceremoniously. 

The  vintagers  stopped  upon  the  threshold  of  the 
press-room,  surprised  to  see  him  with  his  valise  in 
his  hand. 

"  To  morrow,  my  children,"  he  said  to  them,  in  a 
strong  voice,  "  the  day  isn't  yet  finished,  and  there 
is  yet  enough  light  for  you  to  work  a  couple  of  hours 
more ;  the  presses  demand  that  you  work." 

They  answered  him  with,  a  joyous  "  good-day," 
and  the  files  reformed  upon  the  side  of  the  hill 


UN  MYSTERE.  127 

"  Return  to-morrow  or  the  day  after,"  said  bis 
mother  to  him,  accompanying  him  to  the  threshold 
of  the  court.  "  You  know  what  you  will  have  to  do ; 
I  have  nothing  more  to  say." 

He  looked  at  her  from  his  beautiful,  profound 
eyes  with  an  infinite  tenderness. 

"  You  are  a  true  woman  of  God,"  he  said  in  a  low 
voice ;  "  my  father  was  very  happy  with  you,  and  I 
am  proud  of  being  your  son.  Go,  mamma,  go  reign 
over  all  the  people  who  respect  you  and  love  you. 
With  your  bonnet  of  white  linen,  you  are  more  a 
queen  than  many  of  those  who  wear  a  crown." 

He  kissed  her  once  more,  and  then  looked  at  her 
going  away.  With  a  quick  step  she  returned  to  the 
presses.  He  saw  her  say  a  word  of  encouragement 
here  and  a  word  of  reproach  there,  always  with- 
out rudeness  and  without  flattery.  She  seated  her- 
self, gilded  by  the  rays  of  the  sun,  which  was  rap- 
idly declining,  surrounded  by  baskets  of  grapes  like 
a  rustic  Pomona  in  all  the  splendor  of  her  rural 
divinity. 

"  My  dear  saint  of  a  mother,"  said  he  with  a  look 
of  adoration. 

The  train  was  in  sight  upon  a  curve  of  the  Loire, 
under  a  white  bank  of  steam  which  rolled  among 
the  poplars.  The  puffing  could  be  heard  repeated  in 
echoes. 

Theodore  took  his  way,  arriving  at  the  same  time 
with  the  train,  and  rode  on  toward  Paris,  while  the 
clearness  of  the  setting  sun  made  an  aureole  over  his 
hill. 


CHAPTER  XYII. 

Theodore  was  somewhat  troubled  when  he  pre- 
sented himself  at  the  house  of  Mine.  Montclar.  In 
his  portfolio  he  had  the  little  package  given  him  by 
Andre  Bolvin,  and  in  another  pocket  the  famous 
envelope.  Why  were  they  separated  ?  He  could  not 
say.  Many  times  he  had  repeated  to  himself  that 
his  duty  was  to  unite  them  immediately.  However, 
it  had  never  been  done. 

Mme.  Montclar  received  him  in  her  own  salon 
with  a  certain  effusion,  very  different  from  the  cold 
attitude  which  she  had  observed  formerly.  With 
the  first  look,  Benoist  observed  that  she  was  very 
much  changed.  The  stroke  which  she  had  received 
by  the  death  of  her  nephew  had  continued  to  pro- 
duce its  effects,  even  though  she  seemed  to  have 
recovered,  and,  to  those  who  had  not  seen  her  for 
some  time,  it  was  evident  that  her  health  was  greatly 
broken. 

"  I  have  asked  you  to  come,"  said  she,  "notwith- 
standing the  inconvenience  that  my  precipitate  call 
might  cause  you,  because  I  found  myself  in  a  pass, 
and  that,  alone,  I  could  not  get  out  of  it.  It  is  not 
that  I  lack  advice,  I  have  old  friends  and  I  have 
men  of  affairs ;  but  I  recognize  that  my  friends  care 
nothing  for  me  and  that  the  men  of  affairs  can 
see  nothing  here.  You  were  the  friend  of  Raymond, 
I  believe  you  to  have  always  borne  enough  esteem 
and  friendship  to  inspire  in  you  some  affection  ;  help 
me  and  I  will  bear  you  the  most  grateful  thanks." 

128 


UN   MYSTERE.  129 

All  this  had  been  said  in  a  calm  tone ;  but  the  voice 
trembled  slightly  and  the  beautiful  face  of  the  old 
lady  showed  a  profound  emotion.  Theodore  himself 
was  affected.  In  a  few  words,  he  assured  Mme. 
Montclar  of  his  devotion  and  asked  her  to  explain  to 
him  that  which  had  come  upon  her.  She  told  him 
then  of  the  adventure  at  Saint-Aubin,  then  of  the 
welcome  which  their  friends  had  extended  them. 

"It  is  clear,"  said  she  at  last,  "that  it  will  be 
impossible  for  us  to  be  in  society  this  winter;  well,  I 
shall  never  permit  these  miserable  calumnators  to  be 
an  obstacle  to  my  social  life.  From  my  birth  until 
this  day,  I  have  always  walked  with  my  head  high 
and  I  shall  die  thus.  They  wish  me  to  abandon 
Estelle.  I  shall  never  abandon  her:  she  is  a  Beau- 
rand,  she  carries  now  the  name  of  my  father,  that 
would  be  enough  to  make  me  protect  her,  if  for 
olher  things  she  merited  no  regard." 

Theodore  had  heard  this  with  deference,  he  seemed 
to  wait  for  her  to  add  something  else,  but  since  she 
was  si  lent,  he  said  : 

"  What  is  it  you  wish  of  me,  Madame?" 

"That  you  shall  aid  me  in  denouncing  this  infamy 
and  in  clearing  up  the  innocence  9f  my  niece.  We 
must  have  means  to  search.  Have  they  not  said  that 
she  killed  her  husband,  because  she  had  blood  upon 
her  robe?  You  know  well  that  she  did  not  kill  him." 

Theodore  moved.  The  enormity  of  that  accusa- 
tion struck  him  violently  and  he  seemed  dazed. 

"No,  she  did  not  kill  him.  I  would  be  ready  to 
swear  to  that,"  said  he  with  vivacity,  "that  is  truly 
monstrous." 

"Ah,  you  will  help  me  to  defend  her?"  asked 
Mme.  Montclar. 


130  fN   MYST^KE. 


young  man  felt  himself  taken  by  all  his 
uncertainties. 

"  To  defend  Mme.  de  Beaurand  !  From  what  my 
dear  lady  ?  My  intervention  would  be  but  disagree- 
able," said  he. 

"If  you  have  confidence  in  her,  you  will  find  a 
way,"  said  the  old  lady  with  a  little  bitterness. 
"Unhappily  you  also  are  of  the  number  of  her 
enemies." 

"  Permit  me,"  said  Theodore,  trying  to  clear  him- 
self. 

"  I  have  thought  that  your  chivalrous  spirit  would 
force  you  to  vanquish  the  antipathy  which  you  seem 
to  bear  my  niece  ;  1  see  that  I  have  deceived  myself." 

Mme.  Montclar  turned  her  face  and  tried  fur- 
tively to  staunch  a  tear.  She  felt  real  humiliation. 

"  My  dear  Madame,"  said  Benoist,  "  be  sure  that 
my  sense  of  justice  is  strong  enough  to  make  me 
correct  any  error.  I  have  believed,  I  admit,  that 
Mme.  de  Beaurand  might  know  something  of  im- 
portance which  we  knew  not,  and  which  might 
throw  a  new  light  upon  the  mystery  of  the  death  of 
Raymond.  Until  now,  I  have  been  unable  to  make 
myself  believe  that  she  knew  no  more  about  it  than 
do  we,  but  between  that  and  condemning  a  woman  — 
a  woman  in  a  situation  so  terrible,  delicate  and  sad 
as  hers,  there  is  a  great  distance,  believe  me."  He 
was  animated,  while  he  talked,  he  thought  he  could 
hear  the  voice  of  his  mother  repeating  to  him  her 
councils  of  prudence  and  justice  and  he  felt  himself 
to  be  between  his  first  impressions  and  his  new 
emotions  and  it  seemed  that  he  could  not  refuse  to 
do  better  than  correct  his  judgment. 


UN    MYSTKRE.  131 

"'"Well,  Monsieur  Benoist,  I  ask  of  you  one  thing," 
said  Mine.  Montclar  with  vivacity,  "see  my  niece, 
speak  with  her,  try  to  know  her.  She  does  not  raise 
herself  voluntarily,  but  she  has  that  right  and  I  am 
sure  that  you  will  quickly  perceive  it.  Who  knows! 
Perhaps  in  your  conversation,  if  she  should  see  in  you 
a  friend,  she  would  tell  you  without  question,  some- 
thing which  would  help  you  to  comprehend  or  pene- 
trate the  horrible  mystery.  Raymond  had  perhaps 
some  motives,  but  I  can  not  think  so.  Try,  Monsieur, 
to  obtain  her  confidence;  though  very  young,  she 
has  rare  sense,  sometimes  more  than  I  who  am  older — 
Alas!  oh,  so  old." 

With  a  weary  air  she  leaned  upon  the  back  of  her 
armchair,  and  Benoist  saw  to  what  a  degree  slie  had 
been  overcome  by  care. 

"  I  would  hardly,"  said  he,  "  be  able  to  gain  the 
confidence  of  Mine,  de  Beaurand,  but,  dear  Madame, 
for  you  there  is  nothing  that  I  am  not  ready  to 
undertake.  You  have  already  been  so  good  to  me, 
when  I  was  at  Saint-Cyr  and  when  Raymond  took 
me  to  your  home,  and  afterward  and  always " 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  Mme.  Montclar,  putting 
her  hands  upon  her  eyes  to  hide  the  tears,  which 
burst  forth,  notwithstanding,  and  ran  between  her 
fingers.  "  It  is  a  very  strange  thing  to  say ;  but  at 
this  moment  I  have  no  other  friend  but  you  ;  and  my 
niece  has  no  other  friend  but  me.  It  is  necessary 
that  we  work  together.  You  see  there  is  no  way  in 
which  we  can  be  separated — until  death." 

She  fainted  and  her  bead  fell  upon  the  back  of  the 
chair. 

Frightened,  Benoist  rang  the  bell;  the  waiting 


132  UN   MYSTEKE. 

maid  came,  and  immediately  afterward  Estelle 
entered. 

"  It  is  nothing,  Madame,"  said  Benoist  to  her, 
taking  a  step  toward  her ;  "  Mine.  Montelar  has  but 
shown  a  momentary  weakness." 

Estelle  thanked  him  by  a  motion  of  her  head  and 
ran  to  her  aunt,  who,  under  her  delicate  hand,  opened 
her  eyes.  Without  power  yet  to  speak  she  made  a 
sign  to  Benoist  which  he  understood. 

"Madame,  your  aunt,"  said  he  to  Estelle,  "desires 
that  I  should  say  something  to  you  in  confidence; 
she  wishes  me  to  bear  it;  in  order  to  show  myself 
worthy  of  it,  it  is  necessary  that  I  should  declare 
myself  her  servant,  respectful  and  devoted,  and  yours 
also,  Madame." 

He  had  ended  this  sentence  without  looking  at 
her.  He  raised  his  eyes  and  saw  that  the  young 
woman  looked  at  him  with  firmness. 

"  I  thank  you,  Monsieur,"  answered  she. 

"  Give  him  your  hand,  my  niece,"  said  Mme.  Mont- 
elar in  a  feeble  voice,  almost  like  a  breath. 

Estelle  put  forth  her  hand,  fine  and  loyal;  her  eyes 
said:  "  My  old  friend  wishes  that  we  declare  peace. 
I  consent  to  it  in  order  to  please  her,  but  you  may 
remain  of  your  own  opinions." 

In  the  look  of  Benoist  she  read  a  sadness  which 
might  be  a  reproach  or  regret — what  more  she  could 
not  know. 

"We  will  resume  this  conversation  later,"  said  the 
young  man  to  Mme.  Montelar,  "  for  to  day  I  think 
you  have  need  of  complete  repose.  If  you  will  per- 
mit me  I  will  return  to-morrow." 

Too  weak  to  answer,  she  gave  him  her  attenuated 


UN   MYSTERE.  133 

fingers,  which  Benoist  kissed  respectfully.  He  went 
toward  the  door.  Estelle  walked  a  little  behind  him. 
and  also  crossed  the  threshold.  When  they  were  in 
the  neighboring  room  the  door  closed  behind  them 
and  they  stopped  and  looked  at  each  other. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  Estelle,  "  I  do  not  suppose  that 
your  opinion  of  me  has  been  modified  by  the  words 
of  which  I  have  been  the  subject.  To  please  my 
aunt  you  have  believed  it  your  duty  to  hold  senti- 
ments which  you  do  not  believe.  I  thank  you  for 
her;  be  certain  that  I  do  not  misunderstand  it. 

"  Madame,"  said  Benoist,  making  a  violent  effort 
to  speak  in  a  firm  voice,  "  Mme.  Montclar  has  mani- 
fested a  very  great  desire  of  seeing  me  a  true  friend. 
I  could  not  answer  that  request  if  I  came  to  you 
otherwise  than  with  sincerity." 

She  cast  down  her  eyes  and  they  both  remained 
motionless ;  her  soul  full  of  violent  thoughts ;  inex- 
plicable sadness  that  words  could  not  remove,  that 
of  which  the  mind  could  not  divest  itself.  Dur- 
ing the  four  or  five  months  that  they  had  thought  of 
each  other  constantly,  with  passionate  anger  that 
almost  amounted  to  hatred,  what  had  they  not 
spoken  of  each  other  without  the  other's  hearing  ? 
The  remembrance  of  these  vehement  and  mute 
apostrophies  arose  between  them  and  hindered  them 
speaking. 

At  last  Benoist  put  a  hand  in  the  pocket,  where  he 
found  the  portfolio,  and  took  it  out.  He  took  the 
package  given  him  by  Bolvin  and  after  an  imper- 
ceptible movement  handed  it  to  Estelle. 

"  I  should  have  given  you  that  a  long  time  ago," 
said  he, — "  pardon  my  tardiness.  These  papers  are 
the  last  that  Raymond  ever  received." 


134:  UN   MYSTERE. 

She  took  them  with  a  perfectly  firm  hand. 

"  They  were  given  me,"  continued  he,  u  by  the 
magistrate  who  had  undertaken  to  discover  the  cir- 
cumstances— his  mission  was  entirely  friendly  and 
has  not  yet  ended — these  belong  to  you." 

She  threw  her  eyes  on  the  little  paper  which  con- 
tained so  many  things  and  which  really  contained 
nothing  ;  then  she  looked  at  Benoist. 

"Is  that  all?"  said  she. 

He  was  ashamed  before  that  honest  look  with  a 
bitter  sadness,  but  with  an  invincible  pride.  His 
fingers  moved  nervously  over  the  portfolio  and  he 
was  very  near  taking  out  the  envelope.  But  the 
remark  of  Bolvin  returned  to  his  memory :  "  be 
careful  of  it,  1  would  not  be  surprised  if  some  day 
the  letter  should  be  replaced  in  it."  He  returned 
the  portfolio  to  his  pocket  and  said,  "that  is  all." 

They  remained  silent  for  a  moment  before  each 
other. 

"I  thank  you,  Monsieur,"  said  the  young  woman, 
at  last.  After  a  short  hesitation,  she  added,  "for 
this  and  for  the  care  which  you  have  taken  of  my 
aunt.  She  is  ill,  worse  than  she  appears;  that 
which  happened  at  Saint-Aubin  dealt  her  a  terrible 
blow.  I  think  she  will  not  live  long — then  I  shall 
be  alone.  But  so  long  as  she  lives,  so  long  will  she 
have  love  for  me — for  you,  be  good  to  her,  Monsieur." 


CHAPTER  XYIII. 

Upon  rising  the  next  morning,  Theodore  Benoist 
was  surprised  to  find  himself  in  a  smiling  disposition 
of  mind,  almost  gay,  something  which  had  not 
occurred  to  him  for  a  long  time. 

That  man  of  grave  thought,  of  a  serious  heart, 
had  not,  to  speak  properly,  worn  out  his  youth. 

A  disappointment  in  love  at  the  age  when  these 
things  have  a  decisive  influence  upon  certain  char- 
acters had  left  upon  him  a  sadness  without  bitter- 
ness ;  but  accompanied  by  a  sort  of  discouragement. 
The  great  love  and  the  profound  respect  which  he 
bore  his  mother  had  hindered  him,  from  dispraising 
women  in  general ;  but  he  did  not  feel  a  desire  to 
recommence  a  like  trial  and  love  never  comes  to 
any  but  those  who  seek  it;  he  had  passed  in  an 
austere  manner  the  years  which  the  greater  number 
of  men  dissipate  in  pleasures  and  aventures  amour- 
euses. 

It  was  at  once  to  him  a  strength  and  a  weakness. 
Without  doubt,  having  reserved  the  freshness  of 
his  impressions  and  the  energy  of  his  will,  he  was 
well  armed  for  the  combat  of  life;  but  he  ignored 
many  of  the  snares,  and,  above  all,  those  which  one 
innocently  spreads  for  one's  self,  where  thousands  of 
the  most  worthy  are  the  most  easily  taken. 

Benoist  would  not  have  wished  to  have  deeply 
loved  Mme.  de  Beaurand.  The  old  remains  of  dis- 
like, the  yet  unexplained  mystery  enveloped  the 
young  woman,  to  his  eyes,  in  a  captious  atmosphere, 

135 


136  UN  MYSTERE. 

almost  frightful ;  he  saw  her  as  one  respires  an  air 
charged  with  intoxicating  poisons,  with  a  sort  of 
fear  almost  of  anguish. 

Truly,  he  had  struggled  against  himself  during 
the  peaceable  summer  passed  near  his  mother,  in  the 
large  and  easy  life  of  a  country  proprietor;  the 
certitude  that  Raymond  had  killed  himself  on 
account  of  Estelle  had  not  ceased  to  haunt  his  mind. 
All  at  once,  he  asked  of  himself,  once  or  twice,  if 
the  cause  of  the  suicide  had  not  been  in  Kaymond 
himself — but  then,  why  should  his  friend  have 
trembled  before  an  avowal  when  he  was  upon  the 
point  of  preferring  death,  and  Benoist  put  aside  the 
idea. 

The  mere  fact  of  having  hesitated  in  such  an 
absolute  conviction,  however,  brought  on  a  dis- 
tressing tension  of  the  poor  fellow's  nerves;  the 
sight  of  Estelle  no  more  irritated  and  revolted 
against  his  suspicions,  but  saddened  almost  to  humil- 
iation by  the  undeniable  injustice  of  the  opinion, 
brought  him  to  a  new  condition. 

He  liked  her  better  thus  than  in  anger  and  in- 
dignation ;  his  heart  now  counselled  indulgence,  pos- 
sibl}T  pardon  for  that  creature  so  rudely  chastised 
for  a  certain  mishap,  and  assuredly,  out  of  pro- 
portion, he  believed  it  now  with  the  terrible  effect 
that  had  followed  it.  That  Estelle  was  guilty  of  an 
imprudence,  of  inconsequence,  possibly,  he  would 
admit.  A  grave  fault !  He  didn't  believe  so  even 
for  a  moment. 

Her  sad  youth,  her  real  isolation  in  the  midst  of 
the  world,  were  they  not  sufficient  facts  to  excuse 
her?  And  whatever  could  have  been  her  error,  was 


ttf  MYSTERE.  137 

it  not  cruelly  punished  ?  Was  not  a  little  indulgence 
due  her  ? 

These  vague  and  fugitive  ideas  visited  the  sleep 
of  Benoist;  his  awakening  had  that  peculiar  sweet- 
ness of  the  mornings  which  followed  great  efforts  of 
will,  examinations  for  example.  With  a  leisure  very 
different  from  his  usual  custom,  he  dressed  himself, 
breakfasted  and  went  out,  finding  the  air  balmy, 
the  passers  by  pleasant  and  Paris  admirable. 

By  the  order  of  Mme.  de  Beaurand,  he  was 
received  upon  the  rezde-chaussee.  The  large  hotel 
was  very  sad  in  its  luxury,  the  waxed  floors  glis- 
tened like  ice,  the  paintings  and  the  gildings,  restored 
for  the  marriage,  glistened  in  the  silence  and  the 

o     *     o 

solitude.  Theodore  was  very  much  affected  upon 
seeing  this  suite  of  rooms,  full  of  noise  and  of  move- 
ment when  he  had  been  there  last;  moved  by  an 
unreflecting  impulse,  he  entered  the  little  salon 
where  he  had  exchanged  with  Ea}rmond  the  last 
words,  where  they  re-affirmed  their  tender  friend- 
ship and  from  there  he  returned  to  perceive  the 
retreat  where  his  eyes  had  rested  upon  Estelle  while 
she  was  speaking  with  her  friends. 

There,  where  he  had  contemplated  her  in  her 
white  nuptial  toilet,  he  saw  her  now  coming  toward 
him  dressed  in  mourning.  Possibly  she  had  grown 
taller;  certainly  her  form,  already  so  noble,  was 
more  slender  and  graceful;*  her  step  was  very  firm 
and  more  grave  than  before;  one  felt  that  the  load 
of  her  life  weighed  upon  her  }7oung  shoulders  with- 
out making  them  bend.  Eapidly,  as  if  he  had  sud- 
denly become  aware  of  an  indiscretion,  Benoist 
stepped  to  meet  her. 


1,38  UN    MYSTKRE. 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  he,  "I  could  not  avoid  walking 
here,  it  was  here  that  I  saw  Beaurand  for  the  last 
time." 

Estelle  looked  the  young  man  in  the  face,  her 
eyes  went  straight  to  the  bottom  of  his  soul,  and  he 
felt  all  at  once  that  he  could  no  longer  suspect  her, 
even  of  the  most  venial  fault.  A  great  shame  with 
a  profound  feeling  of  repentance  entered  Benoist ; 
he  bowed  his  eyes,  incapable  of  say  ing  any  thing  and 
slowly  as  a  submissive  dog,  followed  Mme.  de  Beau- 
rand,  who  went  to  a  salon  near  the  hall. 

"Mme.  Montclar  is  suffering,"  said  she,  seating 
herself  and  designating  a  seat  for  him  upon  the  sofa. 

"  She  is  confined  to  her  bed,  and  asks  that  you  ex- 
cuse her;  besides,  yesterday,  I  believe,  she  explained 
to  you  that  which  preoccupied  her.  The  sickness 
is  without  remedy — at  least,  so  it  appears  to  me ; 
however,  if  it  is  possible  to  discover  a.nything  to 
assure  my  aunt  of  rest,  it. will  have  to  be  found  at 
any  price  whatever;  but  for  that  only." 

"  Only,"  asked  Benoist,  touched  by  that  self-abne- 
gation of  which  he  felt  the  sad  and  hidden  effort ; 
"and  for  you,  Madame? " 

She  raised  her  head  proudly. 

"  For  me?"  said  she,  with  a  softness  that  her  ges- 
ture did  not  betoken;  "I  need  nothing  I  hope  for 
nothing.  Why  should  I  preoccupy  myself  with 
those  things  which  do  riot  affect  me?  Mme.  Mont- 
clar loves  me  and  esteems  me,  that  is  sufficient." 

Theodore  felt  wounded,  but  his  wound  caused  him 
a  sadness  without  irritation;  had  he  not  merited 
that,  even  a  hundred  times  more? 

"  Madame,"  said  he,  in  a  low  voice — 


UN   MYSTEKE.  139 

He  stopped,  as  if  to  implore  pardon  of  that  woman, 
so  kindly  if  deeply  offended.  The  mere  fact  of  excus- 
ing himself,  was  not  that  also  another  offence?  She 
awaited  that  which  he  wished  to  say,  because  he  had 
begun  to  speak. 

"  Madame,"  said  he,  with  a  great  effort,  I  under- 
stand and  I  admire  your  devotion  to  Mme.  Mont- 
clar,  but  it  is  not  for  her  alone  that  you  have  to 
struggle,  it  is  for  yourself  also." 

"  O  for  me,"  said  Estelle,  with  a  gesture  of  thanks, 
"  if  I  had  the  misfortune  to  lose  my  aunt,  the  opinion 
of  the  world  would  be  of  little  consequence." 

"  They  see  in  the  world,  however." 

She  shook  her  head  negatively. 

"  I  would  go  into  a  corner  of  the  province,"  said 
she ;  "  I  would  become  useful  there  if  I  could ;  I 
would  quit  the  name  which  has  brought  to  me  such 
a  load  of  sorrow,  and  I  would  live  tranquilly  under 
that  of  my  mother — Mile.  Brunaire.  They  would  say 
of  me,  '  she's  an  old  maid.' " 

She  laughed  lightly,  a  little  laugh,  short  and  sad. 
He  heard  it. 

"  And  those  who  love  you  ? "  said  he,  feeling,  him- 
self, the  absurdity  of  that  word  and  not  being  able 
to  retain  it. 

She  looked  at  him  with  profound  astonishment. 

"  But  there  are  none,"  said  she.  "  My  friends  of 
youth  are  broken  from  me  by  the  catastrophe.  And 
then,  with  money,  can  I  not  make  friendship  more 
or  less  firm,  no  matter  where  ? " 

Benoist  kept  silent  for  a  moment,  seeking  some 
means  by  which  to  disclose  his  thought.  She  stud- 
ied him  with  a  secret  satisfaction ;  to  see  before  her 


140  UN    MYSTEKE. 

her  old  enemy  in  trouble  was  a  pleasure  that  was 
mysteriously  enjoyable. 

"  You  are,  then,  undeceived,"  said  he  at  last,  "and 
so  young." 

"  One  must  be,  you  will  admit,"  said  she,  a  little 
drily.  "  Then,  Monsieur,  I  would  have,  for  you,  infi- 
nite thanks  if  you  would  do  what  you  can  to  tran- 
quilize  my  aunt,  and  even  to  that  end  I  have  said  to 
myself — but  shall  I  give  you  a  bad  opinion  of  me  ?" 

Theodore  received  full  in  his  face  the  look  of 
Estelle,  which  said  to  him :  "  Have  you  not  a  bad 
enough  opinion  of  me  already,  and  without  reason  ? 
Is  it  possible  that  I  could  add  yet  one  thing  more  ?" 
His  own  look  answered  :  "  Cast  no  more  upon  me, 
I  pray  of  you." 

"  I  have  thought  that,  if  you  would  help  me,  we 
together  might  form  a  coinplot  to  give  to  Mme. 
Montclar  a  pleasant  illusion.  She  is  very  ill,  and 
I  am  afraid  that  her  days  are  nearly  ended.  Our 
mourning  and  hor  state  of  health  will  probably 
hinder  her  going  out  this  winter.  It  is  you  who 
will  be  charged  with  communicating  with  the  peo- 
ple outside.  Could  you  not,  Monsieur,  say  to  her 
that  there  has  been  produced  a  sentiment  in  my 
favor,  or  simply  that  they  no  longer  speak  of  me  ? 
That  would  doubtless  be  true.  The  world  does  not 
occupy  itself  for  any  length  of  time  with  the  same 
subjects.  It  would  have  been,  of  necessity,  a  truly 
extraordinary  circumstance  to  make  me  a  toy  for 
this  length  of  time.  Will  you  not,  Monsieur,  aid  me 
in  this  truly  charitable  work?  That  excellent  woman 
has  not  merited  the  misfortune  which  the}7  have  "- 

"  No  more  have  you,  Madame,"  said  Benoist,  rising. 


UN   MYSTERE.  141 

She  lowered  her  eyes  to  taste  the  strange  sweetness 
of  that  speech,  and  they  remained  silent. 

"  As  for  me,"  said  she,  with  an  altered  voice,  "  it 
matters  little.  I  have  told  you  "• 

"  It  bears  upon  everything  you  respect,"  responded 
he,  bowing. 

She  arose  also;  something  choked  her  and  hin- 
dered her  saying  a  word. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  she,  so  low  that  he  had  to  bend 
his  head  in  order  to  understand,  "  you  believe  no 
longer  that  it  was  I,  or  on  account  of  me  " — 

He  bowed  so  deeply  he  almost  rested  on  his  knee's. 

"  Madame,"  said  he,  in  the  same  choked  voice, 
"  pardon  me  for  having  been  so  miserable — it  was 
because  I  loved  my  friend  more  than  myself  " — With 
an  unreflecting  movement,  she  held  out  her  hands, 
which  he  seized  and  pressed  strongly.  Their  fingers 
did  not  separate,  and  they  remained  face  to  face, 
smiling,  the  eyes  of  Estelle  glistening  with  tears, 
those  of  Theodore  half-closed,  for  he  contained  his. 
She  took  a  deep  breath. 

"  Ah,  Monsieur,"  said  she,  "  I  thank  you.  At 
present  my  load  seems  less  heavy  to  carry." 

They  spoke  amicably  during  the  few  moments; 
but  that  which  they  said  was  foreign  to  their  true 
thoughts.  Benoist  soon  took  leave. 

"Do  you  wish  me  to  return?"  said  he;  "has 
Mme.  Montclar  need  of  me  ? " 

"  No,"  responded  the  young  woman.  "  Now,  we 
do  not  desire  to  take  you  from  your  mother,  who 
must  be  distressed  over  your  absence.  "We  will  see 
each  other  this  winter." 

They  parted  in  the  great  hall,  so  cold,  so  white ; 
but  each  one's  soul  was  warm  and  clear. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

A  summer  already  prolonged  beyond  all  seeming 
possibility  detained  at  Saint-Martin,  far  from  Paris, 
those  whose  duties  did  not  imperiously  recall  them. 

Silence  and  abandonment  continued  to  reign  at 
the  hotel  de  Beaurand  ;  except  a  few  humble  souls, 
of  those  whom  necessity  or  reconnaissance  attached 
to  the  fortunes  of  the  rich,  Mme.  Montclar  received 
very  few  visits,  and  Estelle  received  none  at  all. 

Great  was  her  surprise  when  one  day  she  found 
herself  called  upon  by  Mme.  de  Polrey.  The  chilliness 
of  the  weather  had  prevented  Mme.  Monclar  taking 
the  air  for  a  couple  of  hours  in  her  carriage,  as  she 
often  did,  accompanied  by  her  niece. 

The  first  intention  of  the  young  woman  was  to 
not  answer.  Was  there  not  something  outrageous  in 
that  visit,  made  at  a  time  of  day  when  no  visits 
were  made,  and  following  an  inexcusable  silence? 

However,  a  quick  reflection  changed  her  feelings; 
she  must  know  what  Mme.  de  Polrey  had  to  say, 
it  would  perhaps  be  interesting,  and  certainly 
instructive;  and  more,  it  was  probable  that  the 
good  woman,  in  presenting  herself  at  the  time  of 
da^j  when  Estelle  and  her  aunt  commonly  took  the 
air,  counted  upon  not  finding  them  at  home,  thus 
allowing  her  to  merely  leave  her  card,  and  the  satis- 
faction of  taking  her  in  her  own  trap  was  not  to  be 
disdained.  She  who  had,  according  to  the  expres- 
sion, served  as  mother  to  Mme.  de  Beaurand,  was 

somewhat  disappointed  at  seeing  her  introduced;  but 

us 


TIN   MYSTEKE.  143 

then  one  must  not  always  hope  to  find  the  people 
out,  upon  whom  one  calls  from  nece.ss:ty.  Besides, 
she  was  not  displeased  upon  her  part,  to  see  what 
sort  of  a  face  a  woman  accused  of  such  a  crime  would 
have.  Escorted  by  her  two  daughters  she  went  into 
the  salon  where  Estelle  was  waiting  to  receive  her. 

"My  dear  child,"  said  she  when  they  were  seated, 
after  the  unavoidable  kissing,  "I  could  not  wait  a 
moment  to  tell  you  of  the  good  news  that  has  so 
filled  our  house  with  joy.  Your  two  friends  and 
companions  of  childhood  are  affianced  to  two  of  our 
worthy  gentlemen  friends;  the  one  is  a  country 
gentleman,  and  the  other  is  a  lieutenant  of  the  10th 
regiment  of  Hussars ;  my  two  daughters  are  much 
pleased,  and  my  two  sons-in-law  are  carried  away, 
and  they  will  celebrate  the  wedding  upon  the  same 
day." 

"  I  congratulate  you  most  sincerely,  my  dear  lady," 
said  Estelle. 

She  looked  at  the  companions  of  her  childhood, 
who  truly  seemed  to  be  satisfied  with  their  lot,  and 
congratulated  them  also:  the  young  girls  were  not 
after  all,  responsible  for  the  prudence  of  their 
mother.  She  astonished  herself  by  answering  with 
a  ceremonious  politeness,  much  different  from  her 
old  familiarity. 

A  storm  of  remembrance  assailed  Estelle.  There 
were  the  friends  whom  she  had  left  some  six  or  seven 
months  before,  in  her  childhood's  room,  pressing 
around  her,  placing  here  a  flower  upon  her  person, 
there  a  jewel,  pleased  with  their  role  of  maids-of- 
honor,  and  hiding,  the  elder  at  least,  for  the  younger 
was  sincerely  attached  to  her,  a  real  jealousy,  under 
the  covering  of  the  most  tender  friendship. 


144  UN  MYSTEKE. 

Oh,  but  that  was  a  long  time  ago.  A  lapse  of 
twenty  years,  a  crown  of  white  hair  like  that  of 
Mme.  Montclar  replacing  the  black  locks  of  the 
young  woman  could  not  have  marked  a  more  pro- 
found or  a  wider  gulf.  In  a  moment  Estelle  drove 
away  that  impression,  and  the  sadness  about  to  seize 
her  disappeared,  and  was  replaced  by  a  proudness, 
bordering  upon  disdain. 

"Be  happy,  my  dear  friends,"  said  she,  with  a 
great  freedom  of  mind,  "  happiness  knows  no 
absolute  conditions,  everyone  arranges  his  to  his 
own  taste,  and  I  hope  that  yours  will  be  easy  and 
true." 

Upon  each  of  the  little  noses  appeared  a  com- 
manded smile,  each  of  the  little  mouths  proffered  a 
few  words  devoid  of  real  sense,  but  very  a-propos, 
and  the  two  pairs  of  eyes  turned  toward  their 
mother,  who  ought  then  to  have  something  to  say. 

"  The  marriages  are  set  for  the  twenty  ninth," 
said  Mme.  de  Polrey  with  a  slight  inquietude ;  "  it  is 
sad  that  your  mourning  will  prevent  your  attend- 
ance, perhaps  you  will  come  to  the  mass,  however  1 " 

"  Heavens,"  thought  Estelle,  "but  she  is  afraid  of 
my  accepting.  She  deserves  a  beautiful  very  formal 
"yes,"  but  then  that  is  not  worth  my  provoking 
them." 

"I  can  not,"  said  Estelle  aloud.  "Mme.  Montclar 
is  suffering.  The  twenty -ninth,  that  is  within  eight 
days,  I  believe?  I  do  not  believe  she  will  be  able  to 
bear  the  fatigue  of  the  ceremony  so  soon,  and  I  never 
go  out  without  her." 

"You  are  right,"  said  Mme.  de  Polrey,  visibly 
relieved ;  "  however  much  we  may  regret  it,  we  can 
not  help  approving  you." 


UN    MYSTERE.  145 

She  rose  to  go ;  the  young  women  accompanied 
her  to  the  hall.  The  elder  of  the  girls  said  suddenly  : 

"  You  will  come  to  see  my  trousseau,  will  you  not, 
Estelle?  It  will  be  on  exhibition  Monday  and  Tues- 
day ;  it  is  not  as  rich  as  yours  was,  but,  however,  it 
is  not  bad." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  mother,  somewhat  troubled,  "  you 
might  come  in  the  morning,  or  better  about  half  past 
one  when  you  will  be  sure  of  meeting  no  one ;  at 
that  time  you  will  surely  find  us  alone." 

Mine,  de  Beaurand  smiled.  That  little  bit  of  inso- 
lence, innocent  as  it  might  seem,  which  would  have 
profoundly  wounded  her  two  months  before  seemed 
to  her  irresistibly  comical  in  her  insensibility. 

"  Be  not  disturbed,"  she  responded,  "  I  will  go  at 
a  time  when  I  shall  meet  no  one;  it  is  not  so  long 
since  I  left  your  house,  I  know  your  customs  yet." 

"  It  is  on  account  of  your  mourning,  you  under- 
stand "  said  the  younger,  who  had  blushed  with 
shame  as  she  heard  her  mother  say  that. 

She  was  a  good  little  girl,  yet  little  enough  habit- 
uated to  the  ways  of  the  world  to  think  of  herself 
alone. 

"  I  understood,  my  dear  child,"  said  Mme.  de 
Beaurand  ,  putting  her  hand  affectionately  upon  her 
shoulder,  "  and  I  thank  you.  I  thank  you  also  for 
your  visit  Madame ;  have  the  kindness  to  remember 
me  to  M.  de  Polrey." 

"When  the  three  women  were  in  their  carriage  the 
mother  proceeded  to  scold  the  foolish  child  severely 
for  having  made  such  a  terrible  blunder. 

"  Can  you  imagine  the  effect  she  would  have  pro- 
duced had  she  come  at  five,  among  all  those  people  ? " 
said  she  upon  terminating  her  homily. 


1-iO  UN   MYSTERE. 

"  It  is,  however,  necessary  that  she  should  see 
what  they  have  given  us!  "  said  the  young  girl  with 
a  sulky  look.  "After  all  her  trousseau  was  not  so 
much  richer  that  ours,  rich  as  hers  was." 

"  She  answered  very  nicely,"  interrupted  Odette, 
"and  she  showed  much  tact.  When  I  am  married  I 
shall  see  her." 

"  You  will  do  no  such  thing,"  scolded  her  older 
sister. 

"At  least,  if  my  husband  does  not  prohibit  me,  you 
will  see  if  I  don't  see  her,"  replied  the  little  rebel. 
"And  if  he  is  mean  enough  to  forbid  it  I  shall  not 
love  him  at  all.  She  was  very  kind  to  me,  while  we 
were  in  the  convent,  and  I  love  her  very  much.  And 
I  don't  think  she  was  ever  capable  of  doing  anything 
wrong,  not  a  thing,  whatever  they  may  say." 

"There,  that  is  enough,"  said  Mine,  de  Polrey. 
"Do  not  get  angry  my  daughters,  for  then  you 
would  spoil  your  complexions,  and  we  have  yet  ten 
or  eleven  more  visits  to  make  before  dinner." 

After  having  talked  over  with  Mme.  Montclar  the 
question  of  whether  or  not  she  could,  with  propriety 
accept  Mme.  de  Polrey's  invitation,  Estelle  decided 
in  the  affirmative.  Consequently  the  next  Monday, 
for  the  first  time  since  the  day  of  her  marriage,  she 
crossed  the  threshold  of  the  house  which  had  been, 
or  which  seemed  to  have  been  her  home  for  a  dozen 
years. 

She  was  greatly  moved  upon  seeing  her  old  room 
decorated  for  the  occasion,  the  same  as  it  had  been 
for  her ;  it  was  she  who  so  few  months  before  had 
run  from  one  table  to  another,  lifting  delicately  with 
the  tips  of  her  fingers  the  laces  and  the  silken  stuffs, 


UN    HYSTERE.  147 

as  her  old  friends  were  now  doing.  With  what  child- 
like joy  did  she  blow  the  pleats  of  her  marriage  dress, 
overjoyed  with  it  being  so  beautiful!  She  remem- 
bered how  upon  the  last  evening,  alone  in  her  room, 
into  which  she  could  not  now  enter,  she  had  tried  on 
the  jewels,  placing  them  on  her  bare  shoulders  before 
the  glass,  those  jewels  that  had  come  from  her  mother. 
How  the  stones  glistened  upon  the  delicate  satin  of 
her  young  breast,  and  how  the  diamond  stars  scin- 
tillated in  her  black  luiir.  The  radiant  vision  of 
that  moment,  the  last  of  her  maiden  freedom,  made 
the  tears  come  to  her  eyes  as  she  brushed  the  rib- 
bons that  knotted  the  trousseau. 

"  Estelle,"  suddenly  said  an  almost  childish  voice 
in  her  ear,  "  when  I  am  married  I  shall  go  and  see 
you ;  do  you  want  me  to — say  ? " 

Mine,  de  Beaurand  turned  around  quickly,  and 
saw  raised  to  her,  full  of  a  generous  light,  the  eyes 
of  Odette,  of  whom  at  the  convent  she  had  so  long 
been  the  little  mother. 

"You?"  said  she,  seized  with  tenderness  and  joy. 
"  Then  you  have  always  loved  me  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes.  You  shall  see  my  affianced — he  is  very 
kind.  I  love  him,  and  he  is  so  good  you  will  love 
him,  too.  You  will  come  and  dine  with  us  at  our 
house,  will  you  not  ?  Listen,  I  will  set  that  service 
for  you,"  said  she  pointing  to  a  table  loaded  with 
silver  and  damask  linen.  "  That  is  my  best." 

Estelle  looked  about  her.  At  the  other  extremity 
of  the  salon  Mine,  de  Polrey  and  her  elder  daughter 
were  holding  a  great  council  with  the  milliner.  She 
seized  the  yet  too  meager  young  girl  in  her  arms,  and 
kissed  passionately  the  little  chubby  face,  at  that 
moment  of  an  almost  ideal  beauty. 


148  UN   MYSTERE. 

"  You  are  a  dear  little  darling,"  said  she  in  a  very 
low  voice,  "and  I  shall  always  love  you  for  what 
you  have  just  said  to  me.  May  God  bless  you  for 
your  charity  and  return  it  to  you  a  hundredfold  in 
Paradise.  You  have  truly  to-day  given  a  cup  of 
cold  water  to  a  sufferer." 

"Then  you  will  come?"  questioned  the  child,  who 
did  not  half  understand. 

"We  will  see  each  other  later,  when  you  wish ; but 
no  more  now." 

She  put  between  herself  and  Odette  the  interval 
of  a  step  or  two,  then  turned  toward  Mine,  de  Pol- 
rey,  who  came  toward  her.  Speeches  and  still 
speeches,  and  polite  deceits,  and  Mine,  de  Beaurand 
left  the  house  of  her  childhood.  Alone  in  her  car- 
riage she  felt  so  much  alone  that  she  burst  into  tears. 
As  she  staunched  them,  with  a  delightful  sensation, 
the  image  of  Theodore  Benoist  displaced  that  of  her 
" petite  fille." 


CHAPTER  XX. 

The  marriage  of  the  Miles,  de  Polrey  took  place 
with  great  pomp.  Mme.  Montclar  and  her  niece  sent 
their  cards  in  return  for  invitations,  and  a  telegram 
upon  the  day  of  the  marriage.  That  evening  Estelle 
had  secretly  sent  to  her  young  friend  a  very  precious 
jewel,  chosen  for  her  with  a  half  maternal  solicitude. 
Both  of  the  young  couples  left  the  city  at  noon,  each 
one  to  its  fate,  and  Mme.  de  Beaurand  felt  that 
Paris  was  a  little  chillier,  a  little  more  hostile  when 
the  little  woman  had  left  with  her  husband. 

Benoist  had  returned  after  a  longer  silence  than 
usual.  His  mother  felt  very  much  fatigued,  a  little 
weakened,  by  superintending  an  unusually  large 
harvest,  and,  he  having  vainly  pressed  her  to  accom- 
pany him  to  Paris  in  order  to  consult  the  faculty, 
he  finally  remained  with  her.  This  sacrifice  had  its 
reward  very  soon.  The  repose  of  the  winter  and 
the  feeling  that  her  son  was  near  her,  soon  brought  to 
her  cheeks  the  color  of  which  Theodore  was  so  proud ; 
the  black  eyes  had  again  their  usual  brilliancy  and 
vivacity,  and  the  quiet  smile  that  gave  so  much 
charm  to  that  face,  returned  every  time  the  face  of 
her  son  appeared.  They  lived  together  in  the  large 
house,  pre-occupied  apparently,  by  different  thoughts, 
but  which  were  not  sensibly  different,  for  they 
thought  continually  of  each  other. 

A  cold  day  of  December  covered  the  panes  of  the 
high  windows  with  frost  and  the  reflection  of  a 
slight  fall  of  snow  gave  a  peculiar  charm  to  the 

149 


150  UN   MTSTEKE. 

crackling  of  the  big  beech  log  in  the  fire-place. 
Theodore  buried  in  an  arm-chair,  read  a  paper; 
Mme.  Benoist,  with  active  fingers  was  knitting  long 
woolen  stockings  for  her  son  to  wear  in  March, 
when  he  should  go  to  superintend  the  cultivation  of 
the  vines. 

"Theodore? "  said  she,  sticking  one  of  her  needles 
under  her  linen  cap. 

He  looked  up,  torpidly  and  voluptuously  lazy. 

"  You  have  the  air  of  being  extremely  content, 
my  son,"  said  she,  without  stopping  her  work.  "Are 
things  going  as  you  wish  them  to  ?  " 

He  could  not  resist  smiling,  and  his  mother 
removed  her  look  from  his  good  eyes. 

"  As  I  wish,  mamma,  that  is  to  say  a  good  deal," 
said  he,  "  because  I  do  not  know  very  well  what  I 
want,  except  to  see  you  happy  and  well.  But  if  it 
is  of  my  cares  that  you  are  speaking,  I  may  say  that 
they  are  better." 

A  light  of  satisfaction  shone  upon  her  face,  which 
was  clear  of  the  tan  of  the  summer;  white  under 
the  white  bonnet,  with  a  light  rose  blush  upon  her 
cheeks,  she  was  a  veritable  picture  of  domestic 
peace. 

"  Then  you  know  why  your  friend  committed 
that  bad  act?  No?  Then  why  are  you  free  from 
care  ?  What  has  happened  ?  " 

"  I  have  reflected  upon  your  counsels  and  have 
found  them  good ;  the  person  whom  you  know  so 
well,  has  pardoned  my  folly  and  my  unkindness." 

"  Ah,  you  have  spoken  to  her  ? " 

"I  saw  her;  she  is  now  caring  for  her  husband's  aunt, 
who  has  not  long  to  live,  the  poor  women  have  had 


UN   MYSTERE.  151 

more  than  their  share  of  sorrow.  Imagine,  that 
they  have  accused  Mme.  de  Beaurand  of  having 
killed  her  husband,  I  know  the  contrary  to  be  true. 
It  is  the  horribleness  of  that  calumny  that  has  made 
me  bethink  myself.  I  am  no  more  foolish,  nor  any 
more  wicked  than  any  others.  At  last  it  is  finished 
and  I  am  easy." 

"  You  gave  her  the  letters  ?" 

Not  daring  to  lie  he  made  a  sign  of  the  head 
that  she  took  for  an  affirmation. 

"  And  you  yet  know  nothing  ? " 

"  Nothing.'' 

Mme.  Benoist  knitted  with  a  singular  energy. 

"  You  never  thought,"  said  she,  in  a  half  tone, 
"  that  your  friend,  when  he  was  young,  had  perhaps 
made  an  imprudent  promise  to  some  woman  ?  A 
promise  to  marry  her  and  I  know  not  what  ?  I 
have  often  thought  of  that  and  I  have  asked  myself 
if  proud  as  he  was,  if  he  had  not  lost  his  mind  upon 
being  called  a  dishonest  man;  once  married  he  could 
not,  however,  undo  it.  You  never  thought  of  that  ? " 

Theodore  leaped  from  his  chair  and  walked  with 
long  steps  through  the  great  dining  room. 

"No.  And  it  is  astounding.  That  is  an  explana- 
tion. It  is  prodigious,  and  it  is  to  you  that  the  merit 
is  due  that  the  idea  was  discovered.  But  in  the 
whole  affair  I  have  conducted  myself  like  an  ass.  I 
was  stubborn  enough  to  remain  quiet.  Mamma, 
you  are  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  women  I 
ever  knew." 

He  took  between  his  hands  the  well  shaped  head 
of  Mme.  Benoist,  and  kissed  her  two  cheeks  repeat- 
ed ly,  after  which  he  returned  to  his  chair  and  sank 
into  an  attitude  of  meditation. 


152  TIN  MYSTERE. 

"  You  may  be  right,"  said  he,  after  a  few  min- 
utes. "  But  alone  I  can  not  make  the  thorough  search 
it  demands.  But  that  would  be  impossible." 

"What?" 

"  It  will  necessitate  looking  over  the  papers  of 
Raymond  to  find  something  that  would  point 
toward  such  a  thing;  but  how  get  the  papers?" 

"  Demand  them  of  the  widow,"  said  Mme.  Benoist, 
tranquilly,  who  had  recommenced  her  work  after 
having  re-adjusted  her  hair. 

"  Of  her  ?  ''asked  Theodore. 

"  Indeed,  you  can  not  hurt  her,  I  think.  It  seems 
to  me  that  it  is  to  her  interest  that  the  truth  be 
known." 

After  an  instant  of  silence,  she  laid  her  knitting 
upon  her  knee  and  looked  at  her  son. 

"  You  see,  Theodore,  that  if  it  were  I  who  was 
accused  of  such  a  horrible  thing,  I  would  not  sleep 
day  or  night  till  it  was  cleared  up." 

"  No  more  does  she  sleep,"  said  Benoist  sadly. 

"  Then  if  you  are  her  friend  you  ought  to  render 
her  the  sleep  of  which  she  has  so  much  need.  And 
lastly,  if  you  please,  or  if  you  do  not  please,  it  is  an 
affair  between  you  and  her;  for  your  duty  as  a 
friend,  as  much  of  the  widow  as  of  the  dead  captain, 
is  to  discover  the  truth." 

"You  are  right,  mother,"  said  the  young  man, 
rising ;  "  since  you  have  no  more  need  of  me — 

"Yes,  you  may  go  now,  since  I  am  well  and  have 
not  much  to  do.  But  listen  to  me  my  son.  You 
understand  that  I  love  you  and  that  I  am  desirous 
of  your  happiness.  If  that  woman  should  come  to 
love  you  and  she  had  only  unhappiness  in  her  life, 


UN  MTSTEBE.  153 

then  it  is  well  for  her  because  you  are  a  worthy 
fellow  and  have  always  acted  properly.  But  I  am 
an  honest  woman,  as  was  ray  mother  before  me,  and 
as  was  her  mother  before  her;  our  house  has  never 
had  any  but  good  women,  and  should  it  please  God 
they  will  always  be  such.  I  would  not  have  it  so 
that  they  might  point  at  her  and  say:  'She  was 
the  cause  of  the  death  of  her  husband ;  and  the 
proof  of  it  is  that  they  have  never  been  able  to  tell 
why  he  killed  himself.'  They  must  know,  how- 
ever, why  it  was.  If  he  lost  his  mind  the  doctors 
must  say  so.  In  short,  my  son,  it  makes  little  differ- 
ence if  they  have  calumniated  your  wife  if  you  can 
prove  to  the  people  that  it  was  false.  Otherwise,  I 
shall  witness  vour  marriage  with  sorrow.  It  is  be- 

«/  o 

cause  of  that  that  I  tell  you  to  search  and  to  find." 
"  You  speak  like  wisdom  itself  and  I  thank  you," 
said  Benoist,  kissing  respectfully  the  old  wrinkled 
hand  that  had  taken  the  needles  again,  and  knitted 
fast  to  make  up  for  the  lost  time.  "  I  shall  have  to 
go  to  work." 

A  few  days  later  Benoist  presented  himself  at  the 
hotel  de  Beaurand.  Mme.  Montclar  was  better  and 
received  him  with  visible  pleasure.  The  poor 
woman  was  fast  failing;  but  she  only  half  realized  it. 
The  winter  had  brought  to  her  a  few  of  her  old 
friends,  aged  ladies,  independent,  that  is  to  say  out 
of  society,  who  put  their  habits  above  their  pre- 
judices ;  having  passed  all  or  a  part  of  their  even- 
ings during  twenty  years  at  the  home  of  Mme. 
Montclar  or  of  Noel  a  Paques,  they  could  see  no  rea- 
son why  they  should  not  continue  to  do  so  still.  With 
an  indifferent  politeness  they  had  accommodated 


154  TIN   MYSTERE. 

themselves  to  the  presence  of  Estelle ;  and  she  had 
besides  rendered  herself  agreeable  to  each  one  of 
them  in  a  discreet  way,  and  her  aunt  was  rejoiced 
as  though  by  a  happy  presage. 

The  visit  of  Benoist  instead  of  returning  them  to 
unhappy  remembrances,  as  she  had  feared  it  would, 
gave  the  old  lady  great  pleasure ;  she  asked  him  to 
dine  with  them.  He  did  so,  hoping  in  this  way  that 
he  might  the  more  easily  see  Mme.  de  Beaurand 
alone;  he  was,  however,  deceived, for  Mme.  Montclar 
would  not  permit  herself  to  be  separated  from 
Estelle;  after  several  unsuccessful  attempts,  he 
decided  to  write  her  asking  for  an  interview  with 
her  alone. 

She  was  much  surprised  by  that  odd  step,  which 
caused  her  no  little  worry  ;  however,  she  responded 
by  fixing  a  day  and  an  hour  when  she  knew  Mme. 
Montclar  would  be  occupied  by  business  with  a 
man  of  affairs. 

Her  heart  beat  a  little  louder  as  she  descended 
into  the  salon  of  the  rez-de-chussee,  where  she  had 
received  the  young  man  three  months  before ;  that 
day  had  been  of  much  importance  in  her  life  so 
suddenly  transformed  that  she  could  not  think  of  it 
without  a  tremor  of  joy.  Nothing  of  that  emotion 
showed  upon  her  face  as  he  advanced  towards  her 
holding  out  his  hand. 

In  a  few  words  he  excused  himself  for  his  Demarche 
and  made  her  understand  that  nothing  but  a  very 
grave  motive  would  have  prompted  him  to  do  so. 

u  You  have  discovered  something  ? "  said  Mme. 
de  Beaurand  with  a  feeling  of  interest. 

"No,  but  my  mother  said  it  was  my  duty  to 
search  in  all  directions." 


UN    MYSTEKE.  155 

"  Your  mother  ? "  interrupted  Estelle.  "  Your 
mother  has  had  the  goodness— 

"  My  mother  esteems  you,  and  loves  you  as  should 
every  right-minded  soul  who  knows  of  your  sorrow." 

Estelle  looked  down.  What  a  divine  light  these 
words  were  to  her  sorrowful  heart.  There  was  one 
woman  in  the  world  who  cared  for  her  and  who  was 
sorrowful  on  her  account,  and  yet  who  did  not  know 
her.  Without  doubt  since  Benoist  had  done  her 
justice  he  had  explained  it. 

"  It  is  my  mother,"  said  he,  devining  the  thought 
of  Estelle,  "  who  understood  your  situation.  To  do 
her  justice,  I  should  say  that  she  opened  my  eyes." 

Estelle  raised  her  right  hand  lightly  to  impose 
silence;  he  obeyed  the  gesture. 

"  That  which  I  wish,  and  it  is  something  that  I 
hardly  dare  ask,  is  permission  to  look  over  the  papers 
of  Raymond,  the  letters  of  his  youth,  to  see  if  we 
can  not  find  some  trace  of  some  occurrence." 

She  looked  at  him  attentively,  then  bowing  her 
eyes,  became  profoundly  absorbed. 

"  You  are  right,"  said  she,  after  a  silence.  "  I  will 
conduct  you  to  his  apartment." 


CHAPTEK  XXI. 

Mrae.  de  Beaurand  opened  the  door  of  the  high, 
dark  room,  where  Kaymond  had  found  death.  All 
was  in  the  same  order  that  it  was  upon  that  fatal 
da}' ;  the  furniture  of  waxed  oak  glistened,  without  a 
speck  of  dust,  the  candelabras  held  their  candles,  upon 
the  writing-desk  the  familiar  objects  occupied  their 
ordinary  places.  Benoist  felt  his  heart  tremble  as 
he  crossed  the  threshold  of  that  chamber  of  death ; 
the  ghost  of  his  friend  seemed  to  be  floating  around 
the  room  above  his  head  in  the  obscurity  of  the 
pannelled  ceiling.  He  entered,  however,  following 
Estelle,  who  had  gone  several  steps  in  advance 
toward  the  fireplace ;  she  stopped,  her  eyes  fixed 
upon  a  spot  on  the  floor,  visibly  affected. 

"It  was  there  that  I  got  my  robe  in  the  blood," 
said  she,  in  a  low  voice.  u  That  blood  will  forever 
rest  upon  me,  and  God  knows  that  I  would  have 
given  all  of  mine  —  " 

She  went  no  further;  controlling  her  emotion,  she 
went  toward  the  closet,  and,  opening  it  with  a  key 
from  a  bunch  that  she  carried,  she  took  from  it  three 
others,  which  she  gave  him. 

"  Do  your  duty,  Monsieur,"  said  she  to  him  ;  "  in 
that  writing  desk  and  in  that  stand  you  will  find  all, 
I  believe,  that  will  be  of  use  to  you.  I  thank  you  in 
advance,  and  I  will  await  you  in  the  room  above." 

"  You  will  leave  me? "  said  Theodore,  embarrassed, 
taking  the  keys.  "  However,  your  presence  would 
be  justified." 

156 


UN    MYSTERE.  157 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  tranquil  and  profound 
look  in  her  eyes. 

"  Where  we  now  are,"  said  she,  "  in  this  matter 
the  ordinary  conveniences  are  far  behind  us,  and  we 
can  not  recall  them.  Think  then,  we  are  here,  you 
the  friend,  I,  the  wife,  of  the  dead,  to  search  in  his 
life  for  some  wrong,  some  error  which  will  permit 
me  to  lift  my  eyes  from  the  crime  of  which  I  am 
accused.  And,  however,  God  knows  that  I  respect 
the  memory  of  Eaymond  as  much  as  do  you  your- 
self." 

She  made  a  gesture,  sad  and  resigned,  as  she 
moved  toward  the  door. 

"  Pardon,"  said  Benoist,  "  but  I  can  not  open  the 
desk ;  the  key  will  not  turn." 

She  returned  and  bent  over  the  table,  and,  with  a 
little  difficulty,  she  unlocked  it;  the  drawer  opened, 
showing  the  orderliness  of  the  deceased  in  the 
arrangement  of  the  papers  and  the  objects  which 
it  contained,  and  which  had  been  respected  by 
Bolvin. 

As  she  arose,  with  a  light  sigh  she  looked  at  the 
carved  silver  case  that  had  contained  her  photograph. 
Empty,  it  occupied  its  ordinary , place.  Michael, 
upon  leaving  the  hotel  to  enter  as  a  guard  upon  the 
lands  of  the  Beaurands,  had  put  all  things  in  place, 
and  had  transmitted  a  positive  order  to  the  valet  to 
replace  it.  Estelle  threw  herself  a  little  forward, 
as  though  frightened. 

"  My  photograph,"  said  she,  in  an  altered  voice ; 
"  who  has  taken  my  photograph  ?  " 

Benoist  did  not  answer.  The  half-burned  debris 
of  the  forgotten  photograph  returned  to  his  memory, 


158  UN   MYSTERE. 

and  he  trembled  at  the  fugitive  thought  that  per- 
haps Estelle  was  not  innocent.  That  was  not  a 
light. 

"  Raymond  had  my  photograph  upon  his  writing- 
desk;  he  told  me  so  a  hundred  times;  we  bought 
the  case  together  in  the  Rue  de  la  Paix,  while  pur- 
chasing jewels.  It  was  I  who  gave  it  to  him.  What 
can  have  become  of  my  photograph  ? " 

She  looked  at  the  young  man  with  eyes  wild  from 
distress,  and  of  one  can  not  know  what  mysterious 
anguish.  He  was  ashamed  of  himself,  and  felt  that 
he  should  speak. 

"Before  his  death,"  said  he,  very  low,  "Raymond 
destroyed  it ;  I  found  some  remains  of  it  in  the  fire- 
place." 

"  Monsieur,"  said  Estelle,  in  a  choked  voice,  look- 
ing at  him  with  a  supplicating  expression,  "that can 
not  be ! " 

"It  is  the  truth,"  said  he,  as  much  affected  as 
though  he  had  pronounced  a  sentence  of  death. 

She  carried  her  cold  hands  to  her  head. 

"My  God,"  said  she,  almost  without  breathing, 
"what  could  they  have  told  him?  What  infamy 
could  have  troubled  his  mind  to  make  him  inflict 
such  an  outrage  upon  me  ? " 

She  leaned  upon  the  back  of  a  chair,  tottering ; 
Theodore  put  out  his  arm  to  sustain  her,  but  with- 
out daring  to  touch  her.  She  fixed  upon  him  her 
great  black  eyes,  softened  by  the  bitterness  that  was 
almost  terror. 

"  Tell  me,  Monsieur,  what  is  it  they  could  have 
written  him  about  me?  What  have  you  thought 
since  you  no  longer  believe  that  it  is  1 2 " 


TIN    MYSTERE.  159 

He  interrupted  her,  crushed  to  the  bottom  of  his 
soul  to  hear  her  talk  so  simply,  without  rancor  or 
anger,  of  the  outrage  which  he 'had  inflicted  upon 
her. 

"  Madame,"  said  he,  with  firmness,  "  since  I  have 
had  my  eyes  opened,  I  have  come  to  believe  that  my 
friend,  de  Beaurand.  must  have  lost  his  mind,  to  cause 
you  such  sorrow  and  to  inflict  upon  you  so  much 
disgrace.  One  stroke  of  insanity  would  explain  it — 
and  excuse  his  action." 

Estelle  was  a  little  re-assured,  and  she  looked  at 
the  half-open  drawer. 

"  Poor  Raymond,"  said  she,  suddenly  appeased  and 
consoled  by  the  words  she  had  just  heard,  "  there 
was  perhaps  a  secret  in  his  life.  Search,  Monsieur ; 
who  knows  if  we  should  not  weep  over  him,  when 
we  know  the  truth  ? " 

She  passed  before  Benoist,  saluting  him  with  a 
queenly  bow,  and  went  out,  closing  the  door  noise- 
lessly. The  young  man  who  had  followed  her 
with  his  eyes,  sighed  when  she  had  disappeared ; 
in  her  clothing  of  black  laine,  she  seemed  to  have 
taken  away  all  the  light  of  that  mortuary  chamber. 

Resolutely,  his  teeth  clenched,  with  a  sort  of 
internal  madness,  he  examined  package  after  pack- 
age, drawer  after  drawer ;  the  smallest  envelopes, 
the  smallest  boxes  were  examined  with  a  widely  dif- 
ferent kind  of  persistent  attention  from  that  with 
which  they  were  examined  by  Andre  Bolvin ;  the 
entire  life  of  the  unfortunate  passed  in  review  under 
his  eyes,  which  had  become  attentive  and  impas- 
sionate,  as  those  of  a  judge.  The  day  was  closing, 
and  Benoist  lighted  the  candles  of  a  candelabra  and 


100  UN   MYSTERE. 

continued  his  work  ;  at  last,  when  he  had  assured 
himself  that  nothing  had  escaped  him,  he  closed  the 
drawers  carefully,'having  first  put  all  things  in  their 
places,  and  then  placed  the  candelabra  upon  the 
mantel. 

His  eyes  fell  upon  the  picture  of  the  General,  which 
was  clearly  lighted,  and  he  was  held  as  though  under 
a  spell. 

A  hundred  times  he  had  seen  that  work  without 
being  affected,  in  any  unusual  wa}^,  or  particularly 
interested ;  he  was,  however,  now  attracted  to  it  as 
though  to  an  enigma.  It  was  to  that  picture  of  his 
father  that  Raymond  had,  in  all  probability,  ad- 
dressed his  last  words;  they  found  him  before  it; 
what  did  that  man,  condemned  to  die  by  his  own 
hand,  say  to  it  ?  Was  it  a  reproach  ?  "Was  it  a  par- 
don or  a  prayer  that  rose  from  his  lips  before  they 
closed  forever  ?  Could  that  picture  have  heard  why 
the  Captain  killed  himself  ?  "Would  it  have  borne 
wi, ness  to  the  innocence  of  Estelle?  Now  he  was 
trying  to  revenge  the  death  of  the  husband.  He 
must  preserve  from  infamy  the  name  of  the  wife. 

Benoist  took  the  candelabra  again,  stepped  back  to 
be  able  to  see  the  portrait  better ;  he  felt  a  peculiar 
sensation,  a  kind  of  fascination,  in  looking  into  those 
black  eyes  so  full  of  tenderness  and  will,  the  features 
well  drawn,  so  the  old  picture  did  not  lack  a  delicate 
grace.  Raymond  had  not  the  eyes  nor  the  hair  of 
the  General,  though  they  resembled  each  other;  but 
ii  was  not  the  resemblance  between  the  father  and 
the  son  that  struck  him,  it  was  something  else  unex- 
plained and  unexplainable.  He,  also,  died  in  the  full 
flower  of  life,  and  none  knew  why  he  died,  nor  who 
shot  him. 


UN   MYSTERE.  1»>1 

That  man  must  have  been  irresistible,  thought 
Benoist,  as  he  placed  the  candelabra  upon  the  mantel ; 
that  portrait  possessed  a  charm  which  he  had  never 
met  elsewhere.  At  another  time  it  \vould  not  have 
produced  this  same  effect  upon  me ;  it  is  now  only 
that  I  can  explain  what  it  is  that  makes  Mine.  Mont- 
clar  adored  by  all  the  people.  It  is  her  eyes. 

Those  eyes  followed  Benoist  for  a  long  time  in  his 
work  and  in  his  dreams,  those  profound,  tender, 
black  eyes,  full  of  energy  and  kindness. 

He  went  out  of  the  chamber  full  of  strange  impres- 
sions, almost  superstitious,  and  mounted  the  stair- 
case to  find  Estelle. 

She  awaited  him,  calm  in  appearance;  in  reality, 
in  deep  anguish.  On  seeing  him,  she  made  a  gesture 
of  interrogation,  so  light  that  he  hardly  saw  it. 

"  Nothing,  absolutely  nothing,"  said  he. 

Mine,  de  Beaurand  showed  no  surprise,  but  dis- 
couragement was  depicted  upon  her  beautiful  face, 
and  Benoist  contemplated  it  with  silent  emotion. 

"You  have  accomplished  a  very  distressing  task. 
I  know  not  how  to  thank  you  for  it.  We  must  now 
abandon  all  hope." 

"  You  are  not  sure  of  that,"  said  Benoist,  preoccu- 
pied. "  Are  you  well  acquainted  with  the  life  of 
General  de  Beaurand  ?  " 

"Very  little.  Raymond  loved  him  passionately, 
but  he  lost  him  when  very  young." 

"  Have  Mine.  Montclar  tell  you  all  that  she  can 
about  the  life  of  her  brother.  It  is  thus  that  per- 
haps we  shall  discover  something." 

He  was  at  the  end  about  to  retire.  Estelle  ap- 
proached him  to  speak  to  him  in  a  low  voice. 


1C2  UN    MYSTERE. 

"  My  photograph !  My  pooi  photograph !  that  gives 
me  more  trouble  than  I  can  ever  tell  you,  I  had  never 
returned  to  that  room.  It  is  not  because  I  was 
afraid;  I  never  knew  childish  fear;  but  I  never 
knew  why  I  should  go.  Then  you  think  Kaymond 
died  cursing  me  ? " 

"  No,"  said  Benoist,  speaking  contrary  to  himself 
"  I  can  not  believe  that.  He  -knew  you,  he  appre- 
ciated you  ;  no  one  could  change  his  opinion  thus  in 
a  minute." 

"  Then  why  did  he  tear  it  ?    However  "  — 

"  It  was,  perhaps,  that  nobody  might  touch  it  after 
him,"  suggested  Benoist,  at  hazard. 

The  explanation  was  not  satisfactory,  however, 
it  slightly  appeased  the  anguish  of  Estelle,  who,  at 
that  moment,  downcast  by  her  long  waiting,  was 
very  easily  convinced.  She  held  her  hand  to  her 
ex-enemy,  now  become  her  ally,  and  they  parted 
without  further  adieu.  Before  returning  to  Mme. 
Montclar,  she  was  inclined  to  go  in  her  turn  and 
search  the  drawers  of  Raymond's  writing  desk. 
To  what  good  ?  Had  Benoist  not  examined  them  all 
faithfully?  The  confidence  which  she  had  in  that 
enemy  of  but  a  few  days  since  was  profound  and 
inexplicable ;  she  resolved  to  trust  absolutely  in  him. 

Benoist  was  no  less  quieted  by  his  long  search. 
In  breathing  the  damp,  cold  air  of  the  Boulevard 
Saint- Germain,  he  heard  murmured  in  his  ear  short 
phrases,  sometimes  in  the  voice  of  Raymond,  some- 
times in  the  voice  of  Estelle.  The  eyes  of  the  Gen- 
eral followed  him  until  he  saw  them  twice  in  the 
faces  of  the  people  whom  he  met.  A  third  time,  he 
stopped  short  under  a  carriage  way  ;  a  woman  poorly 


UN    MYSTEKE.  163 

dressed,  half-famished,  young,  bearing  bouquets  of 
violets,  in  a  pannier  under  a  door,  silently  implored 
the  pity  of  the  passers-by  with  her  soft,  dark  eyes, 
which  resembled  those  of  the  portrait. 

I  am  haunted,  thought  the  young  man.     If  this 
should  continue,  I  believe  I  also  shall  lose  my  mind. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

• 

Mme.  Montclar  went  out  no  more;  the  chilly  air 
outside  burned  her  because  she  had  become  almost 
of  a  morbid  sensibility.  The  doctors  questioned,  hud 
counseled  that  they  should  manage  it  so  that  the 
interior  apartments  should  have  pure  air,  as  fre- 
quently as  possible  without  exposing  her  to  the 
coarseness  of  winter.  She  lived  in  an  artificial  at- 
mosphere as  nearly  natural  as  possible,  her  niece 
having  by  her  delicate  attention  gathered  around 
her  a  circle  of  old  friends,  of  old  habitues,  who 
could  possibly  give  to  her  the  illusion  of  society. 
The  poor  woman  became  weaker  day  by  day  ask- 
ing only  that  they  should  wait  upon  her  and  with- 
out troubling  themselves. 

This  wreck  which  had  been  the  flower  of  a  good 
Parisian  company,  bore  to  Estelle  neither  cordiality 
nor  coldness;  they  accepted  her  as  a  part  of  the 
hotel,  she  did  not  trouble  their  conversation  nor  was 
she  troubled  by  their  whist.  Their  tea  or  their  light 
cup  of  chocolate  was  veiy  acceptable,  served  by  her 
beautiful,  delicate  hands,  and  even  in  thanking  her, 
they  did  not  dole  out  their  smiles.  Some  of  those 
who,  notwithstanding  their  age,  had  not  abdicated 
their  pretensions  would  have  voluntarily  taken  it 
upon  themselves  to  introduce  her  to  the  Court  if  the 
miserable  story  had  not  thrown  upon  their  aspira- 
tions a  sort  of  light  crape,  slightly  disconcerting. 

Estelle  knew  that  not  one  of  these  amiable  men, 
not  one  of  these  polished  women  had  for  her  a  word 

164 


UN     MYSTERE.  165 

of  kindness,  good  will,  or  even  of  compassion.  She 
knew  that  upon  the  clay  when  she  should  lose  her 
aunt,  that  band  of  friends,  more  or  less  gorraands, 
and  very  egotistic,  would  disappear  like  a  band  of 
swallows  upon  the  day  when  the  table  should  cease 
to  be  set ;  but  she  was  careful  to  not  mention  this 
to  Mine.  Montclar.  Upon  the  contrary,  she  praised 
to  her,  when  she  found  occasion,  the  good  grace  and 
the  kindness  of  these  people,  desirous,  above  all,  of 
giving  her  until  her  end,  all  the  illusions  possible 
with  regard  to  herself. 

"  You  will  not  be  entirely  alone,  after  I  am  gone, 
my  child,"  said  the  old  lady  to  her  one  day,  "  I  will 
leave  you  my  friends  as  a  legacy,  and  they  will  help 
you  in  making  other  friends  before  disappearing 
themselves.  All  the  people  are  not  so  bad  as  the 
blockheads  at  Saint-Aubin.  Look  at  Monsieur 
Benoist.  Have  you  not  found  in  him  a  true  friend?' 

"And  besides  we  have  his  mother  for  a  friend," 
said  Estelle,  trying  to  please  her  aunt. 

"His  mother?  He  has  one  then?  Ah,  yes,  a 
worthy  woman,  who  attends  the  vine\rard.  I  remem- 
ber. He  is  not  of  the  aristocrats,  the  young;  Be- 

v  O 

noist ;  but  he  is,  however,  extremely  well-bred.  There 
is  no  place  like  Saint-Cyr,  you  see,  to  school  a  son. 
Raymond  had  a  great  regard  for  him,  Tery  high . 
What  is  he  doing  now  ?  Working  at  chemistry  ?  I 
believe.  He  has  spoken  to  me  about  the  fats.  Mor  3 
than  that  I  know  nothing.  Who  have  we  to  dinner 
this  evening  \ " 

Estelle  answered  all  the  questions  that  Mme. 
Montclar  put  to  her ;  but  her  mind  was  elsewhere. 
The  manner  in  which  the  old  lady  had  just  spoken 


166 


UN     MYSTERE. 


of  Benoist  had  deeply  wounded  one  cord  of  which 
she  herself  had,  until  then,  not  known  the  existence. 
Thisprotectorial,  slightly  disdainful  tone,  in  speaking 
of  the  vintner  and  of  his  mother,  had  hurt  her  more 
than  as  though  she  had  spoken  thus  to  her  own  self. 
Until  then  she  had  seen  in  Benoist  only  the  moral 
man,  once  her  judge,  now  her  ally,  always  the  friend 
ofEaymond;  she  became  aware,  suddenly,  that  he 
had  also  a  social  life,  had  occupation,  friends,  rela- 
tions of  which  she  had  never  through.  Without 
doubt,  Benoist  is  a  plebean  name  and  chemistry  is  a 
modern  science,  but  does  that  divest  the  man  of  any 
merit  that  would  make  him  useful  ? 

Estelle  had  never  had  aristocratic  prejudices  ;  her 
mother  who  belonged  to  the  nobility  had  married  a 
simple  citizen.  Mine,  de  Polrey  professed  no  opin- 
ions except  those  of  perfect  submission  to  society. 
The  young  girl  had  created  for  herself  a  little  phi- 
losophy upon  seeing  at  the  convent  names  and  the 
origins  of  the  most  diverse  natures,  obtain  like  friend- 
ships and  equal  rewards.  The  manner  in  which 
Mme.  Montclar  had  classed  Benoist  in  an  inferior 
degree  seemed  to  her  monstrously  unjust,  and  created 
in  her  a  short  revolt.  Her  good  heart  and  her  rea- 
son, however,  told  her  immediately  that  the  old 
lady  had  no  malice  toward  him ;  her  affection  had 
received  no  blow;  but  she  felt  in  herself  a  great 
desire  to  compensate  the  unconscious  victim,  of  that 
little  unknown  humiliation,  and  the  esteem  which 
she  had  for  the  young  man  on  account  of  it  was  sud- 
denly augmented. 

Mme.  Montclar  had  invited  Benoist  to  come  up  oil 
any  evening  when  it  seemed  proper  to  him,  H§ 


UN   MYSTEKE.  167 

came  on  a  Sunday ;  but  he  felt  himself  so  com- 
pletely a  stranger  to  the  guests  that  he  felt  troubled 
and  ill  at  ease.  Estelle  seated  herself  at  his  side  to 
talk  with  him.  Suddenly  he  became  aware  that 
they  were  looking  at  him,  and  a  burning  blush  cov- 
ered his  face.  Could  he  have  betrayed  by  some  im- 
prudence the  secret  he  had  hardly  dared  admit 
to  himself?  These  cold,  indifferent,  almost  hostile 
beings,  had  they  perceived  that  he  madly  loved  the 
widow  of  Raymond  de  Beaurand? 

That  idea  became  so  intolerable  to  him  that  he  be- 
came, as  it  were,  paralyzed.  Estelle,  surprised  at  not 
hearing  him  answer,  looked  at  him  attentively ;  he 
believed  himself  discovered  and  making  pretext  of 
an  important  affair,  he  excused  himself  and  weni  out. 

The  mind  of  Benoist  was  in  an  indescribable 
trouble.  Since  he  had  made  peace  with  Estelle  rjid 
himself,  since  his  mother  had  talked  to  him  with 
such  entire  confidence,  he  had  let  the  cares  of  his 
soul  sleep.  A  sort  of  moral  lethargy  had  come  over 
him,  he  had  allowed  the  most  important  thoughts  to 
remain  idle,  the  inquietudes  which  brought  insomnia, 
and  had  lived  only  from  day  to  day,  taking  each 
morning  that  which  life  needed  to  exist. 

In  all  passion,  as  in  all  tempests,  certain  calms 
present  themselves,  then  the  struggle  seems  to  have 
terminated.  One  does  not  disturb  one's  self  with  that 
which  was  devouring  upon  the  evenings  before. 
The  most  painful  sorrows,  the  most  distressing 
qualms  of  conscience  are  appeased.  One  believes 
willingly  that  they  have  ceased  to  exist.  It  was 
thus  that  Benoist  lived  during  several  months,  yet  the 
curious  look  of  a  few  old  women,  would  throw  him 
suddenly  into  a  sea  of  sad  perplexities. 


168  tfN   MTSTEKE. 

First,  and  before  all,  it  was  necessary  to  hide  from 
all  eyes  that  absurd  senseless  love. 

Blinded  by  her  motherly  love,  Mme.  Benoist  had 
been  able  to  speak  of  marriage.  At  the  moment  he 
had  found  it  very  natural,  but  in  the  hotel  Beaurand, 
Estelle  appeared  to  him  under  another  light. 

A  sort  of  an  instinctive  and  secret  fear  had  often 
driven  him  from  his  love.  The  widow  of  Raymond 
became  almost  sacred  to  him.  Was  it  not  a  sort  of 
sacrilege  to  love  the  widow  of  his  friend,  when  so 
little  time  had  passed  since  his  death  ?  What  would 
Estelle  think  if  she  knew  that  he  had  loved  her  since 
the  first  day  of  her  widowhood,  even  when  be  be- 
lieved her  culpable  ?  Would  she  not  be  indignant? 
Later — yes,  that  would  be  different,  and  then 
according  to  the  express  conditions  of  his  mother 
it  was  necessary  to  take  to  the  Pressoirs  a  woman 
clear  of  all  suspicions. 

Descending  to  the  bottom  of  his  heart,  Theodore 
preceived  then  for  the  first  time  that  his  suspicions 
of  Estelle  had  not  been  dictated,  as  he  had  believed, 
by  cruel  concurrence  of  circumstances  and  by  his 
friendship  for  his  brother-at-arms,  but  it  was  a  sort 
of  jealousy,  an  instinct  of  anger  and  revenge,  born 
of  an  unavowable  love  for  her  who  had  chosen 
Raymond. 

I  have  always  loved  her,  he  had  said  to  himself, 
if  Beaurand  had  lived  I  would  have  hated  him  for 
all  the  love  that  she  bore  him,  but  she  did  not 
love  him. 

A  divine  light  drove  away  the  shadows  where  the 
conscience  of  the  }roung  man  was  debating.  She 
did  not  love  him,  he  told  himself,  and  Fate  had 


TIN  MYSTERE.  160 

willed  that  she  should  be  a  widow  and  maiden,  a 
white  soul,  without  remembrance,  without  restraints, 
innocent  and  calumnied,  at  liberty  to  choose  him 
who  should  be  able  to  make  her  love  him.  Theface 
of  Estelle  presented  itself  to  his  mind,  in  all  her 
immaculate  purity,  as  the  Virgin  appeared  to  the 
Saints  in  the  desert;  moved  to  the  bottom  of  his 
soul,  he  was  inclined  to  join  his  hands  before  the 
exquisite  face  in  asking  pardon  of  her  for  so  many 
errorc.  so  many  offenses,  those  which  she  knew  as 
well  as  those  which  she  had  never  expected.  Then 
the  vision  disappeared,  and  he  found  himself  before 
the  reality;  he  adored  the  rich  woman,  who  be- 
longed to  the  aristocracy,  and  who,  without  doubt, 
cared  nothing  for  him.  A  woman  stigmatized  by 
the  opinion  which  his  mother  and  himself  never 
admitted  at  their  fireside  without  desiring  that  the 
truth  should  come  to  light,  and  he  felt  the  weight  of 
existence  full  upon  his  head  like  to  the  lid  of  a 
coffin. 

An  idea  truly  new  to  him  glided  then  across  his 
mind.  Until  then,  he  had  seen  in  Eaymond  but  a 
victim ;  for  the  first  time  he  asked  himself  if  the 
unfortunate  were  not  himself  guilty  in  disappearing 
so  suddenly  from  the  eyes  of  the  world.  He  had 
divested  himself  of  a  multitude  of  duties,  the  first 
of  which  was  to  assure  his  wife  of  a  position  wTorthy 
of  her ;  insanity  alone  would  excuse  this,  as  he  had 
already  said,  but  Raymond  was  no  fool.  Never  had 
he  been  more  master  of  himself  in  his  thought  and 
in  his  language  than  in  their  last  conversation. 

A  dull,  profound  anger  boiled  slowly  in  the  heart 
of  Benoist.  His  friend  had  betrayed  friendship, 


170  tJN    MYSTERE. 

betrayed  love,  betrayed  honor,  in  quitting  life  with- 
out leaving  a  word  which  would  explain  his  disap- 
pearance, lie  had  acted  like  a  coward — a  coward  — 

Benoist,  alone  in  his  room,  which  he  paced  fever- 
ishly, took  his  head  in  his  hands  and  implored  pity 
of  his  dead  friend. 

"I  am  a  wretch,"  said  he  to  him, "  but  pardon  me, 
for  I  suffer  cruelly.  Behold,  I  injure  you  because  I 
have  the  misfortune  to  love  your  wife." 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

Mme.  de  Beaurand  was  seated  at  her  writing-desk 
about  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning,  revising  the 
accounts  of  the  month.  Still  a  novice  at  the  exer- 
cise, she  went  at  it  with  the  fervor  and  the  feeling 
of  a  neophyte ;  the  least  details  were  examined  and 
verified  as  though  they  were  accounts  of  the  state. 

"  What  a  misfortune,"  thought  she,  stopping  in 
the  middle  of  a  column  of  figures,  "  truly,  what  a 
misfortune  it  is  to  be  so  rich.  Not  knowing  what 
to  do  with  one's  money,  it  is  spent  in  useless  things. 
This  great  house  peopled  with  domestics,  horses  in 
the  stables — of  what  good  is  all  this  ?  Would  not 
one  be  as  happy  in  a  house  less  grand,  with  a  less 
complete  service  and  less  sumptuous  equipages?" 

She  remembered  at  that  time  the  joyous  appari- 
tion which  she  met  one  day  upon  the  route  to  Bour- 
gogne,  near  the  Chateau  de  Polrey.  It  was  a  little 
English  carriage,  drawn  by  a  fast  pony  in  full  mane 
and  tail,  with  a  brass  and  silver-mounted  harness  of 
tawny-colored  leather.  A  young  man  held  the 
reins ;  his  pretty  little  wife  laughed  as  she  looked  at 
him.  They  passed  so  quickly  that  Estelle  could  not 
see  them  distinctly  enough  to  recognize  them  after- 
ward. What  was  necessary  to  be  so  happy  ? 

One  might,  with  the  wealth  of  the  Brunaires 
and  that  of  the  Beaurands  combined,  purchase  many 
such  ponies,  harnesses  and  carriages ;  but  that 
laughy  which  the  wind  carried  over  the  field  of  yel- 
low grain,  the  carelessness  of  love,  where  could  she 
have  gotten  that? 

in 


372  UN   MTSTERE. 

Estelle  i'elt  a  profound  melancholy  envelope  her 
like  a  net ;  her  life  seemed  to  be  closed  to  all  things. 
She  had  once  been  young  and  gay;  but  of  what  good 
is  youth  if  one  lives  like  the  aged  ?  Of  what  good  is 
natural  happiness  if  one  is  condemned  to  live  in 
eternal  solitude  ?  Who  would  love  her  ?  Who  would 
marry  her? 

A  sudden  blush  overspread  her  face,  and  she 
re-commenced  her  addition  at  the  top  of  the  column 
as  though  the  figures  could  not  wait.  The  door  of 
her  little  salon  opened ;  she  paid  no  attention  to  it, 
supposing  that  at  that  early  hour  it  was  the  maid 
come  to  put  things  in  order;  suddenly  two  little 
gloved  hands  covered  her  eyes,  and  a  fine  odor  of 
violettes  floated  arouiid  her. 

"Who  is  it?  "  said  a  voice,  vainly  disguised. 

"You,  Odette — My  darling,"  said  Estelle  taken 
with  a  joyful  surprise ;  "  at  such  an  early  hour  ? 
Where  do  you  come  from  ? " 

They  kissed  each  other  and  seated  themselves  side 
by  side  upon  a  narrow  sofa  with  their  hands  joined. 
The  new  bride  blushing  under  her  toque  and  her 
violettes,  looked  at  her  "  ex-little  mother  "  and  said 
with  admiration : 

"Oh,  but  you  are  beautiful!  More  beautiful  than 
ever  before ! " 

"And  you,"  said  Estelle  smiling,  "you  have  changed 
very  much,  you  are  as  pretty  as  heart  could  wish, 
and  you  have  grown." 

"  Oh  I,  it  is  happiness,"  said  the  young  wife  with 
animation.  "  We  have  been  all  over,  at  Rome,  at 
Florence,  at  Venice,  at  Aries,  at  Dijon,  and  in  the  cha- 
teau of  my  husband's  parents.  There,  for  example,  it 


UN  MYSTEBE.  173 

is  not  gay  in  the  winter.  My  husband  was  with  me, 
happily." 

She  pronounced  "my  husband"  with  a  comical 
and  tender  gravity  which  made  Estelle  almost  laugh 
and  cry. 

"  My  husband  is  charming,"  she  continued,  "  he 
adores  me," 

"  And  you  ? " 

"  I  also,  naturally.  Only  I  never  tell  him  so. 
But  I  know  that  he  knows  it  all  the  same.  He  is 
such  a  rogue." 

She  began  to  laugh  and  look  around  her. 

"It  is  very  pretty  here  with  you,  prettier  than  it 
is  at  our  house,  but  little  as  it  is,  it  is  nice  all  the 
same.  You  know  my  husband  is  young,  he  is  twenty- 
seven  ;  he  is  very  handsome  in  his  uniform  of  Lieu- 
tenant of  Hussars ;  the  uniform  of  the  Hussars  is  very 
pretty.  I  want  to  have  me  a  dress  of  blue  cloth,  of 
that  blue,  with  black  Brandenbourgs — like  a  canti- 
niere,  to  carry  the  colors  of  the  regiment.  But  he  is 
going  to  be  transferred  into  the  Chasseurs,  then  we 
will  live  in  Paris." 

"  Is  it  long  since  you  returned  ?  "  asked  Estelle 
troubled  she  knew  not  why. 

"  Yesterday.  Mamma  waited  for  us  at  the  station 
with  papa,  we  are  to  dine  with  them  this  evening. 
We  had  hardly  arisen  this  morn  ing  when  Hubert  went 
to  la  Place ;  do  you  know  what  it  is,  la  Place  ?  I  do 
not  dare  to  ask  him.  I  have  already  asked  him  so 
many  questions  that  I  am  ashamed.  He  pretends 
that  I  ask  him  the  drollest — I  don't  know — I  ask  him 
whatever  comes  into  my  head  ;  and  he  laughs  over 
it  like  a  fool.  Now  I  am  more  prudent;  I  try  to 


174:  UN   MYSTERE. 

inform  myself  elsewhere.  You  see  he  has  gone  to 
la  Place  and  while  he  is  there  I  came  to  see  you. 
My  sister  is  in  Spain  with  her  husband,  they  will 
freeze  there.  That  is  all  right.  I  don't  like  my 
brother-in-law — he  is  now — between  you  and  me,  he 
is  only  a  fool,  only  a  brute.  He'll  have  a  thread  to 
twist  with  my  sister. 

Estelle  listened,  smiling,  to  this  flood  of  words, 
broken  by  childish  laughter,  that  innocent  joy,  that 
confidence  in  her  marriage,  in  her  love,  in  the  life 
which  opened  a  window  upon  the  unlighted  future. 
From  the  prison  in  which  she  had  been  shut  six 
months  before,  it  seemed  to  her  that,  as  far  as  she 
could  see,  rolling  at  the  horizon,  were  verdant  plains, 
peopled  with  happy  beings.  Her  kind  disposition, 
the  exquisite  tenderness  with  which  she  had  been 
endowed,  hindered  her  from  feeling  the  least  envy 
of  a  happiness  that  could  net  be  hers ;  the  pleasure 
of  hearing  her  old  "  little  girl "  prattle  gave  her  a 
maternal  air,  quite  touching  in  her  young  face.  She 
caressed  with  her  hand  the  yellow  hair  which,  at  the 
convent,  she  had  so  many  times  smoothed.  Who 
could  have  told  her  that  the  days  of  study  and  of 
restraint  would,  within  ten  months  after  her  mar- 
riage, be  remembered  so  sweetly,  with  so  much 
regret  ? 

"  Now  you,"  said  the  little  wife,  as  she  placed  a 
new  kiss  upon  the  cheek  of  Estelle.  "  Wait,  here  is 
a  bouquet  of  violets  that  I  bought  for  you.  Imag- 
ine, I  came  on  foot — on  foot  and  all  alone,  without  a 
waiting-maid — I,  who  never  before  put  my  nose  out 
of  the  door  without  being  accompanied.  It  is  awfully 
amusing.  Do  you  ever  go  out  on  foot  and  alone  ? " 


TTN  MYSTJ3BE.  175 

"  No,"  said  Estelle,  thinktng  that  she  had  never 
even  thought  of  using  that  privilege.  "  But  it  is  dif- 
ferent with  me." 

"  Oh,  yes,  that  is  true,"  said  Odette,  looking  at  the 
still  austere  mourning  of  her  friend.  She  hesitated 
for  a  minute,  and  then  continued :  "  Is  it  true  that 
which  they  tell  of  you  ?  Tell  me." 

"  What  is  that,  my  dear  ? "  asked  Mme.  de  Beau- 
rand,  her  heart  beating  distressingly. 

"  That  your  husband  killed  himself  upon  the  day 
of  his  marriage  ? " 

"  It  is  true  " 

"  Upon  returning  from  the  church  ?  " 

"  A  little  after ;  after  you  had  gone." 

"  You  do  not  know  why  ?  " 

"No." 

The  little  Mine.  d'Aulmoye  was  perplexed. 

"  Yon  know  that  they  speak  very  ill  of  you?  "  said 
she,  regretfully. 

"  I  know  it." 

"  But  as  for  me,  I  never  believed  it,"  added  she, 
with  vivacity.  "  I  shall  love  you  always,  my  '  little 
mother.' " 

A  kiss  punctuated  that  sentence ;  then  Odette, 
turning  her  muff  over  and  over,  said,  without  look- 
ing at  her  friend : 

"  But  then  it  is  as  though  you  were  never  mar- 
ried." 

"  Almost,"  answered  Mme.  de  Beaurand. 

"  Poor  Estelle,  you  have  had  nothing  but  sorrow. 
If  I  should  lose  Hubert— Oh !  " 

She  shivered,  and  her  little  face  became  pale. 

"  Then  you  are  happy  ? "  asked  Estelle,  to  turn  her 
thoughts. 


176  UN  MYSTERE. 

"  Happy  !  It  is  Paradise.  That  is  what  marriage 
is.  I  don't  know  if  my  sister  is  of  the  same  mind. 
I  dislike  that  punctillious  good  man  of  a  husband. 
He  is  bald,  with  whiskers.  He  has  the  air  of  a 
notary — a  notary  who  does  not  amount  to  much. 
But  he  has  the  money  ;  he  is  worth  more  than  we. 
He  is  a  vintner,  a  vintner  of  Bourgogne.  As  for  me, 
I  like  the  Army  better.  I  must  go.  Only  think, 
what  if  my  husband  should  return  and  find  me 
absent?  Nobody  knows  where  I  am." 

"You  will  tell  him?"  said  Estelle,  suddenly 
becoming  grave. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  the  young  woman,  lightly.  My 
dinner  is  ordered.  I  hope  the  cook  will  not  have  put 
the  eggs  in  the  water  before  my  arrival.  You 
remember  at  the  convent  there  was  a  student  who 
could  eat  nothing  but  hard  eggs,  because  her  moth- 
er's cook  put  her  point  of  honor  upon  being  always 
exact  ?  Au  revoir,  my  '  little  mother.'  Soon.  I 
will  go  and  call  a  carriage.  That  will  be  amusing. 
I  have  never  paid  for  a  carriage  in  my  life.  Have  I 
lost  my  pocket-book  ?  No,  here  it  is." 

She  searched  her  pockets  with  a  comical  anxiety 
She  stopped  upon  the  threshold  and  cast  a  look 
around  her." 

"  Poor  Estelle  !  always  alone.  I  would  die  of  sor- 
row if  I  were  alone  now.  But  you,  you  never  had 
a  husband  at  all.  To  be  a  bride  two  or  three  hours, 
that  does  not  count.  And  he  was  dead  when  you 
saw  him  ? " 

"  Yes,"  said  Estelle,  gravely. 

"  It  is  horrible.  And  then  not  to  know.  He  was 
insane  was  he  not  ? " 


UN   MYSTERE.  177 

"  I  hope  so,"  answered  the  widow,  but  the  young 
wife  did  not  hear  it 

When  the  little  friend  had  gone  she  went  into  her 
room  scented  with  violets,  truly  all  alone;  a  bride  of 
two  or  three  hours,  that  does  not  count.  What  life 
lacked  so  much  as  hers? 

She  walked  slowly  to  her  desk  and  took  her  book 
of  accounts.  The  addition  recommenced  seemed  to 
wish  to  make  her  desist,  for  it  would  not  be  ended; 
the  rebellious  thought  of  the  young  woman  would 
not  remain  upon  the  figures  and  would  continually 
revert  to  Odette,  in  the  little  apartment  carpeted, 
anew,  elegant  and  decorated  like  a  marriage  basket, 
where  a  Lieutenant  of  Hussars  was  going  to  meet  her. 
She  could  see  him  enter,  his  eyes  sparkling,  his  lips 
half  open;  he  would  laugh  to  see  her  at  her  breakfast. 
Upon  the  dining  table  was  a  bouquet  brought  by  her 
husband,  the  water  and  the  wines  sparkled  in  the 
decanters  in  a  ray  of  light  that  had  just  pierced  the 
clouds,  they  seated  themselves  before  their  egg  cups 
and  their  hard  boiled  eggs,  and  laughed  again. 

Pushing  aside  the  book  of  accounts,  Estelle  placed 
her  two  arms  upon  the  table,  buried  her  head  in  them 
like  a  little  dispirited  child  and  w,ept  hot  tears. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

The  service  in  commemoration  of  the  death  of 
Captain  de  Beaurand,  was  celebrated  at  the  end  of 
the  year  in  great  pomp  at  the  church  of  Saint- 
Thomas  Aquinas.  Mme.  Montclar  had  obstinately 
sent  letters  of  invitation  to  all  her  old  relations  not- 
withstanding the  timid  observations  of  Estelle,  and 
she  would  serve  an  acte  de  presence  upon  all  whom 
she  could  say  were  her  friends. 

"  He  was  my  nephew,  almost  my  son;  I  owe  him 
this  last  proof  of  my  tenderness." 

The  old  lady  had  grown  more  and  more  petulant 
for  some  time,  the  great  generous  flame  which  had 
enveloped  her  at  the  moment  when  her  niece  was 
attacked,  was  extinct,  allowing  to  escape  only  a  few 
isolated  scintillations;  the  approaching  death  of 
which  she  was  not  entirely  conscious  caused  in  her, 
nevertheless,  from  time  to  time,  a  sort  of  fear  which 
translated  itself  in  melancholy,  and  sometimes  in  bit- 
terness. Estelle  who  suffered  without  murmuring, 
thought  that  the  longest  patience  would  not  suffice 
to  pay  the  affectionate  protection  which  had  been 
extended  her. 

Mme.  Montclar  attended  the  service  with  her 
niece.  She  was  very  badly  impressed  upon  seeing 
what  a  small  number  would  give  to  Raymond  this 
last  proof  of  affection  and  to  her  that  solemn  mark 
of  deference;  the  ordinary  habitues,  the  furnishers  of 
the  house  and  enough  of  the  curious  formed  all  of 
the  audience.  The  old  relation,  who  had  represented 

178 


UN   MYSTERE.  179 

the  family  upon  the  year  preceding,  dislodged  for 
the  occasion,  occupied  the  first  chair  with  the  weary 
air  of  a  man  condemned  to  an  inevitable  and  dis- 
agreeable duty. 

Affected  with  a  secret  disquietude,  Benoist  ob- 
served and  kept  in  mind  the  faces  and  their  actions. 
There  was  much  talking  in  that  indifferent  aud- 
ience. He  listened  till  he  was  fatigued,  trying 
vainly  to  hear  something.  At  last  the  general 
absolution  was  pronounced  and  he  went  to  Mme. 
Montclar  to  ask  permission  to  assist  her  to  the 
carriage  while  the  old  relation  would,  if  he  had  room, 
receive  the  salutations  of  the  company  already 
three-fourths  dispersed.  The  old  lady  thanked  him 
with  dignity ;  but  instead  of  allowing  herself  to  be 
accompanied  by  him,  she  followed  the  master  of 
the  ceremonies  and  placed  herself  near  the  entrance. 

"  Aunt,"  said  Estelle,  "  I  beg  of  you,  let  us  go." 

Mme.  Montclar  made  a  gesture  of  decisive  re- 
fusal and  remained  immovable. 

While  the  defile,  which  was  short,  passed,  she 
stood  with  head  erect  not  counting  her  friends 
present,  but  those  absent,  with  a  haughty  bitterness. 
All  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  two  women,  both  so 
beautiful  and  so  imposing.  They  spoke  in  a  low 
voice  around  them.  Estelle  suffered  martyrdom, 
but  she  gave  no  evidence  of  it.  Finally  the  last  of 
the  curious  went  out,  the  old  relation  approached 
Mme.  Montclar,  who  said  to  him  in  a  half  voice : 

"  I  thank  you,  my  cousin." 

A  little  girl  from  among  the  crowd  very  near  her 
pronounced  these  words: 

"  Is  it  the  old  or  the  young  one,  say  mamma,  that 
Idlled  her  husband?" 


ISO  I'N    MYSTKRE. 

The  voice  resounded  like  a  metallic  distinctness 
along  the  sonorous  stones.  All  those  that  were 
scattered  in  the  aisles  turned  to  see.  Benoist  made 
a  violent  gesture,  seized  the  arm  of  the  child  and 
cast  her  aside  with  a  rude  word.  He  returned 
quickly  to  the  t\vo  women.  Mme.  Montclar  leaned 
on  the  arm  of  her  relation.  Estelle  only  looked 
with  an  unexplainable  sadness  at  the  unconscious 
one  who  had  just  inflicted  that  most  mortal  injury. 

"  Take  my  arm  Madame,"  said  Theodore  aloud. 

Joining  the  gesture  to  the  words,  he  led  to  the 
carriage  the  young  woman  who  had  become  weak. 

"  Get  in,  my  cousin,  get  in,  Monsieur,"  said  Mme. 
Montclar  to  the  two  men  who  had  accompanied 
them. 

Silence  reigned  in  the  landau  during  the  short 
journey  from  Saint-Thomas  Aquinas  to  the  hotel  de 
Beaurand.  Mme.  Monclar  climbed  the  steps  of  the 
outer  staircase  and  entered  in  the  salon  of  the  rez- 
de-chau8see\  Benoist  who  had  taken  Estelle's  arm 
conducted  her  to  a  chair. 

"My  friend,"  said  the  old  lady  struggling  against 
her  feebleness,  "  I  thank  you.  I  was  wrong." 

Her  eyes  closed  and  she  lost  consciousness. 

Estelle  recovered  her  strength  immediately ;  a 
real  danger  always  found  her  ready  to  face  it.  Mme. 
Montclar  was  taken  to  her  bed  and  revived.  Her 
physician,  who  saw  her  go  out  with  extreme  repug- 
nance, arrived  at  that  time  to  see  howr  she  bore  the 
new  trial  •  he  ordered  repose  and  absolute  silence. 
Mme.  de  Beaurand  returned  to  the  salon,  wrhere  the 
two  men  awaited  her  return.  The  old  relation, 
after  some  commonplaces,  returned  to  his  pleasures 


UN  MYSTEKE.  181 

and  his  habits.  Benoist  remained  standing,  ready 
to  go. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  Estelle,  "  will  you  give  me  a 
moment  ?" 

"I  am  entirely  at  your  service,  Madame,"  he 
answered. 

"  Then  will  you  follow  me  \ » 

They  went  to  Raymond's  chamber,  which  she 
entered  with  him. 

"  It  is  here,  Monsieur,"  she  said  to  him,  "  where 
nobody  will  either  hear  or  trouble  us,  that  I  wish 
you  to  answer  me.  After  the  insult  to  which  I  was 
just  subjected,  there  is  nothing  that  I  will  not  do  to 
find  out  the  truth.  You  are  the  last  person  to  whom 
my  husband  spoke  confidentially.  Upon  your 
honor,  tell  me  what  was  your  last  conversation  with 
Raymond  ? " 

Benoist  frowned.  He  had  never  before  been 
placed  in  such  a  delicate  situation.  However,  thus 
begged,  he  could  not  do  otherwise  than  answer. 

"  Since  you  demand  it,  Madame,"  said  he,  "I  will 
obey  you.  In  that  conversation,  truly  confidential, 
my  friend,  de  Beaurand,  confessed  to  me  the  abso- 
lute tenderness  which  he  felt  for,  you ;  he  stated  it 
in  such  terms  as  I  have  not  the  right  to  repeat,  but 
which  proved  a  passion  unbounded." 

The  face  of  Estelle,  ordinarily  pale,  was  covered 
with  an  ardent  blush ;  she  awaited  the  rest  without 
raising  her  eyes.  Benoist  had  stopped. 

k'And  then,"  said  she,  seeing  that  he  spoke  no 
farther. 

"  Then,  he  expressed  the  hope  of  seeing  one  day 
that  tenderness  returned" 


182  TIN   MYSTEKE. 

"I  had  very  much  affection  for  him,"  said  Estelle. 

"  He  was  not  ignorant  of  it,  as  you  know  very 
well ;  but  that  affection  he  said  to  me  was  not  that 
which  he  hoped  to  inspire  in  you  later." 

The  burning  red  left  the  cheeks  of  the  young 
woman,  who  became  pale. 

"  And  then,"  said  shes  with  an  effort. 

"  He  spoke  to  me  at  some  length  of  his  father," 
Theodore  answered,  "of  his  tragic  and  mysterious 
death.  The  thought  of  that  poorly  explained  trag- 
edy, evidently  haunted  him,  and  it  evidently  had 
something  to  do  with  the  act  which  terminated  his 
life." 

"Do  you  believe  it?" 

"  I  do  not  doubt  it,  the  same  sort  of  death.  A 
shot  in  the  left  side.  He  must  have  yielded  to  the 
feeling." 

Estelle  suddenly  took  a  step  towards  the  fireplace. 

"But  my  picture,  Monsieur,"  said  she,  with  a 
vehemence  which  Benoist  had  never  known  of  her ; 
"my  torn,  outraged  picture,  as  though  myself  had 
been  torn  and  insulted  that  same  day  ?  Is  it  pos- 
sible that  under  that  occult  impulse  M.  de  Beaurand 
destroyed  it  ?  Or  was  it  a  blind  hatred,  a  stroke  of 
insanity,  jealousy  " — 

She  stopped,  that  word  which  had  escaped  her 
lips  provoked  a  new  blush,  which  mounted  to  her 
forehead  and  immediately  vanished.  Benoist  was 
troubled,  as  was  she. 

"  A  jealousy,"  continued  the  young  woman,  "  and 
of  what,  great  heavens !  and  of  whom  ?  I  left  the 
convent  at  eighteen ;  until  then  I  had  seen  nobody 
except  the  friends  of  the  family  of  de  Polrey,  the 


UN    MYSTERE.  183 

friends  of  holidays,  those  whom  a  prudent  mother 
chooses  to  invite  to  her  house  during  the  time  when 
her  daughters  are  there,  those  who  have  nothing  in 
their  natures  to  excite  the  imagination  of  little 
school  girls.  And  in  society,  I  have  not  met  even  one 
man  capable  of  inspiring  any  interest  in  me,  what- 
ever. You  know  how  they  draw  us  girls  to  marri- 
age? They  do  not  allow  us  to  see  that  the  pretend- 
ants  are  chosen  for  us  with  vigilant  hands.  Raymond 
only,  of  all  those  whom  I  met,  had  serious  qualities, 
capable  of  inspiring  esteem  and  affection." 

She  hesitated  for  a  moment,  struggling,  and  sud- 
denly allowed  the  avowal  for  which  Benoist  waited, 
to  escape. 

"  Notwithstanding  that,  I  did  not  love  him;  no,  I 
had  no  love  for  him,  it  was  rather  pity." 

She  inclined  her  superb  head  with  a  sort  of 
humility  and  continued  immediately: 

"Pity,  because  I  vaguely  felt  that  I  could  never 
love  him  as  he  hoped.  It  is  true,  Monsieur, "  added 
she,  raising  her  eyes,  and  looking  at  Benoist,  "  I  have 
never  wept  for  him,  for  I  did  not  love  him. " 

What  did  she  read  in  the  eyes  that  drank  in  every 
word  from  her  lips?  "Was  it  triumph,  joy  or  prayer? 
She  remained  immobile,  overcome  by  a  delicious  sen- 
sation which  deprived  her  of  all  desire  of  speech. 
She  was  certain,  however,  that  a  door  of  destiny  had 
just  been  opened,  and  that  she  could  no  more  return 
after  that  day. 

"Madame,"  said  Benoist,  slowly,  "  you  have  asked 
me  to  be  entirely  frank.  I  obeyed  you.  Permit  me, 
in  my  turn,  to  ask  a  respectful  question." 

She  did  not  refuse ;  he  continued : 


184r  TIN  MYSTERE. 

"  You  have  told  me,  some  time  ago,  that  you  were 
going  to  live  in  solitude  under  your  maiden  name. 
Is  it  because  marriage  inspires  in  you  an  inevitable 
repugnance  ? 

She  did  not  answer. 

"  Do  you  not  think  that  a  true  union,  based  upon 
true  affection,  upon  giving  you  a  support,  would 
allow  you  to  be  happy,  and  to  be  always  good  and 
kind?" 

"Ah!  Monsieur, "  said  the  young  woman  with  the 
same  energy  which  had  surprised  him  but  a  short 
time  before,  "could  I  carry  to  a  man  the  burden 
which  crushes  me?  What  man  would  accept  it? 
And  if  he  accepted  it,  would  I  not  be  a  coward  for 
imposing  it  upon  him  ?  Even  the  crowd  insults  me 
without  knowing  my  name,  you  have  seen  that. 
And  would  I  expose  a  man  to  participation  in  these 
insults,  to  be  struck  down  perhaps  by  the  chastise- 
ment? Ah,  Monsieur,  is  it  not  enough  that  one 
man  died  for  having  married  me? " 

She  turned  her  inflamed  face  and  burst  into  tears, 
which  were  quickly  staunched.  "As  long  as  the 
mystery  is  not  cleared, "  said  she,  "  I  alone  will  bear 
the  opprobrium,  which  I  have  not  merited.  You 
have  spoken  to  me  like  a  friend,  for  that  and  for  the 
support  which  you  afforded  me,  I  thank  you. " 

He  bowed  in  silence.  Both,  without  adding  a 
word  left  the  chamber  and  separated. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

Mme.  Montclar  had  received  a  mortal  blow; 
strong  in  her  instincts  and  generous  resolutions,  feeble 
/  in  the  difficulties  of  a  struggle  which  seemed  without 
end,  she  had  borne  herself  well  in  the  aggression;  but 
the  resort  which  had  artificially  sustained  her,  had 
been  broken  by  the  last  shock. 

She  maintained,  during  several  days,  her  role  of 
protectress,  having  Estelle  write  invitations,  calling 
her  friends  to  her,  dressing  herself,  or  allowing  her- 
self to  be  dressed,  that  she  might  again  receive  those 
whom  she  had  invited,  and  bearing  ostensibly  toward 
her  niece  an.  affection  and  esteem,  which  she  had 
never  before  borne  toward  any  one. 

This  effort  which  wore  out  the  last  resources  of 
her  body  and  her  mind,  brought  upon  her  a  contin- 
ued fever;  the  ardent  and  lively  eyes  hollowed  and 
surrounded  with  black  circles,  she  was  only  the 
shadow  of  the  beautiful  Madame  Montclar.  Estelle 
moved,  even  to  tears,  surrounded  her  with  cares  and 
filial  caresses.  Each  feigned  calmness  and  even 
gaiety  in  order  to  deceive  the  other,  and,  knowing 
well  that  she  could  not  recover,  still  played  the  do- 
lorous comedy  of  confidence. 

One  morning  about  eleven  o'clock  Madame  de 
Beaurand  preceding  the  waiting  -  maid,  who  bore 
upon  a  server,  the  breakfast  of  her  mistress,  found 
her  aunt  extended  upon  a  reclining  chair  in  a  state 
of  weakness  and  complete  exhaustion.  The  eyes  had 
no  sparkle,  the  features  no  expression;  the  soft  hands 
hung  inertly  by  the  side  of  her  listless  body. 

185 


186  TIN   MYSTERE. 

"  M.y  dear  aunt,"  said  Estelle,  kneeling,  frightened, 
beside  her,  "  do  }TOU  see  me,  do  you  hear  me  2" 

The  invalid  made  a  feeble  gesture ;  the  young 
woman  arose  and  gave  her  a  draught  of  cordial  and 
then  sent  immediately  for  the  physician,  and  after- 
ward returned  to  her  side.  Madame  Montclar  being 
without  strength  enough  to  speak,  breathed  easily, 
her  eyes  were  intelligent  and  kindly.  Spontane- 
ously, without  knowing  that  which  she  did,  Estelle 
ran  to  her  writing-desk  and  wrote  to  Benoist  four 
words:  "Come  to  us  immediately."  Signed  her 
name  and  sent  the  note  to  the  address  of  the  young 
man. 

The  doctor  arrived  first  and  gave  but  little  hope ; 
the  life  was  exhausted,  the  lamp  was  extinguished, 
the  death  was  not  painful,  but  Avould  return  and 
vanish  from  moment  to  moment.  When  Estelle, 
who  had  called  him,  entered  the  room,  Madame 
Montclar  called  her  with  her  eyes. 

"  He  told  you  that  I  am  going  to  die  ?  "  said  she, 
in  a  clearer  voice,  but  feeble  as  a  thread. 

"  Estelle,  listen  to  me." 

"  I  beg  of  you,  do  not  fatigue  yourself,  my  dear 
aunt,"  implored  the  young  woman. 

"  Listen  to  me,"  said  the  dying  woman,  with  a 
little  impatience,  "  I  have  given  to  you  all,  all  that 
I  have.  I  can  not  give  you  friends,  I  have  none. 
You  will  be  alone.  But  I  am  sure  of  your  being 
brave.  You  are  a  Beaurand,  you.  A  true  Beau- 
rand,  like  me." 

She  had  placed  her  right  hand  upon  the  head  of 
her  niece;  the  weight  of  that  hand  threw  backward 
the  beautiful  face,  imprinted  with  a  proud  resigna- 


UN   MYSTERE.  187 

tion.  The  black  eyes  of  Mme.  Montclar  looked 
into  the  black  eyes  of  Estelle,  veiled  with  tears  and 
full  of* a  compassionate  tenderness.  She  seemed  to 
scrutinize  the  soul  of  the  young  woman  in  that  long 
look  which  only  a  conscience  without  stain  could 
have  borne. 

"  See  how  I  was,"  said  the  dying  woman,  with  a 
little  wandering  of  the  mind; "  life  has  worn  me  out, 
worn  me  out.  You  are  young,  you  will  also  struggle. 
A  true  Beaurand,  yes — a  true — ' 

All  at  once,  her  eyes  were  re-animated,  she  drew 
to  her  the  face,  which  she  examined  so  attentively, 
and  looked  at  it  yet  a  little  closer;  a  strange,  unquiet 
expression  came  over  her  features  as  a  live  rosy  tint 
came  to  her  cheeks.  Twice  she  wished  to  express  a 
thought  which  tormented  her  wearied  mind,  but 
she  could  not  formulate  the  words  ;  then  her  hand 
fell,  her  face  paled,  she  sighed,  closed  her  eyes  and 
was  motionless. 

Estelle  was  afraid  and  leaned  over  her,  then  Mme. 
Montclar  spoke  slowly  with  her  eyes  closed. 

"  My  husband,  then  my  brother,  then  Kaymond. 
I  have  lost  all  whom  I  loved.  You  have  come  and 
I  go,  poor  child." 

Another  sigh  deeper,  sadder,  shook  her  breast, 
then  she  seemed  to  become  calmer  and  to  sleep. 
Noiselessly  the  maid  opened  the  door,  the  movement 
of  her  lips  announced: 

"Monsieur  Benoist." 

Estelle  looked  at  her  aunt  and  saw  that  she 
could  leave  her  to  the  care  of  the  maid,  who  took 
her  place;  she  went  out  and  received  the  young  man 
in  the  neighboring  room.  He  stood  awaiting  her. 


188  TIN    MYSTKRE. 

disturbed.  She  looked  at  him  and  he  understood 
taat  the  note  from  Estelle  came  because  of  sorrow. 
More  affected  than  she  was,  he  held  his  hands  to 
her.  She  put  hers  in  his  without  ceasing  to  look 
into  his  sad,  almost  hopeless  eyes. 

"  I  have  no  longer  anything,"  said  that  look,  "  I 
am  an  innocent  waif,  who  goes  to  find  herself  upon 
the  bank  of  an  unknown  river.  Nothing  remains, 
nothing  remains." 

All  at  once  he  read  in  the  black  eyes,  one  knows 
not  what,  that  made  him  tremble  from  head  to 
foot.  Was  it  a  call?  He  did  not  wait  to  reflect. 
The  two  hands  which  held  those  of  the  young  woman, 
drew  her  forcibly  to  him  and  threw  her  upon  his 
breast ;  he  opened  them  and  his  arms  closed  upon 
the  shoulders  of  Estelle  with  a  gesture  of  protection. 
She  did  not  resist ;  with  bowed  head,  she  tasted  in 
herself,  the  grave  and  profound  pleasure  of  feeling 
herself  sustained.  The  simplicity  of  the  gesture 
had  deprived  it  of  all  that  could  make  it  resemble 
a  caress.  It  was  the  close,  and  dignified  embrace 
of  strength  protecting  weakness. 

lie  understood  if  thus  for  his  arms  immediately 
opened  and  he  took  a  step  backward,  while  hi:  face 
had  lost  nothing  of  its  almost  austere  expression. 
She  stood  still  and  looked  at  him,  but  with  a  sub- 
missive kindness  which  he  had  never  before  seen 
in  those  eyes  and  which  had  an  indescribable  charm. 

"  She  is  dying,"  said  Estelle,  without  turning 
away. 

She  felt  an  intense,  blinding  joy  upon  knowing 
thc,t  he  loved  her. 

"You  will  not  be  alone,"  said  he,  "  I  will  come  at 
any  time  you  ma,v  ask  for  me," 


UN    MYSTERE.  189 

"  That  can  not  be,*'  replied  she,  suddenly  made 
prudent  and  perspicuous  by  the  intuition  of  his 
love. 

She  blushed  upon  pronouncing  these  words  and 
his  look  troubling  her,  she  lowered  her  eyes. 

"What  difference  does  it  make,"  said  he,  with 
some  impatience,  "  you  can  not  be  alone  in  such  a 
time  as  this." 

She  had  recovered  her  calmness,  she  put  her  hand 
forward  slowly  toward  the  arm  of  the  young  man, 
upon  which  she  placed  it. 

'•  I  am  not  afraid  of  being  alone ;  I  am  not  afraid 
to  see  death,  but  I  shall  fear  a  word —  She  did 

not  add  the  epithet ;  the  word  sufficed  on  the  lips 
of  a  woman  well  bred. 

"Have  they  not  said  a  hundred  times  worse?" 
replied  Theodore. 

"  Yes,"  said  Estelle,  quickly,  "  but  it  was  not 
true." 

She  recoiled  a  step;  her  head  lowered,  as  if  afraid 
to  have  allowed  such  a  word  to  have  escaped. 

Good  breeding  closes  the  lips  of  men  and  women 
under  an  invisible  seal  which  stops  the  expression  of 
all  their  sentiments,  which  interdicts  the  manifesta- 
tions of  all  their  emotions ;  under  {hat  invisible  law, 
they  cowld  say  nothing  of  that  which  entered  their 
souls,  they  understood  each  other  as  well  as  though 
they  had  explained  it  by  a  long  discourse;  but  it  was 
to  the  true  condition  that  falsehood  and  coquetry 
rendered  them  strangers. 

"IsMme.  Montclar,  then,  surely  lost?  "said  he 
without  betraying  the  joy  that  he  felt  in  his  heart, 

"  It  is  but  a  question  of  hours," 


190  UN   MYSTERE. 

"  Then,  give  me  jour  book  of  addresses ;  I  will  do, 
in  my  room,  all  that  it  is  necessary  to  have  done. 
Will  you  allow  me  to  return  to  see  you  ?  " 

"  Without  doubt.  In  the  evening ;  if  misfortune 
comes  before,  J  will  advise  you  of  it." 

"  Thank  you.     The  book  of  addresses  ? " 

She  went  to  her  writing-desk,  took  out  the  book 
asked  for  and  gave  it  to  him. 

"  It  will  be  necessary  to  inform  M.  de  Mailly,  our 
old  relation,"  said  she. 

"  You  will  write  him,  I  will  take  charge  of  all  the 
rest.  You  need  not  trouble  yourself  in  the  least." 
She  heard  him  with  a  new  feeling  of  complete 
satisfaction ;  she  had  believed  that  a  blood  more 
rich  and  more  generous,  like  to  the  wines  of  the 
lands  of  the  sun,  ran  in  her  veins  at  the  sound  of  his 
voice  which  she  was  astonished  to  find  so  harmoni- 
ous and  so  tender, 

"  Thank  you,"  said  she,  putting  in  that  word  all 
that  she  could  of  thanks. 

"Do  not  disturb  yourself,"  said  he,  "whatever 
happens — whatever  they  do  or  say — you  are  the 
only  mistress  here,  you  should  make  yourself  re- 
spected/' 

"  For  that  I  will  answer  to  you,"  said  she  with  a 
proud  smile.  "  Why  do  you  look  at  me  like  that," 
added  she,  struck  with  seeing  an  impression  of  odd 
trouble  replace,  upon  the  face  of  Theodore,  that  of 
confidence  and  kindness. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  he,  passing  his  hand  over  his 
brow ;  "  I  am  tired  no  doubt,  for  some  time  I  have 
been  ill,  I  believe  it  is  nothing." 


uu  MYSTEKE.  191 

"  Indeed,"  said  she. 

"  Your  eyes  make  me  think  of  something  and  at 
the  same  moment  when  I  thought  of  it,  I  lost  the 
notion  of  that  which  I  thought  I  saw.  Tliat  is  all, 
pardon  me,  have  you  confidence  in  me,  tell  me  ? " 

"  Yes,"  said  she. 

"  Then  this  evening." 

She  returned  to  the  room  of  Mme.  Monclar  under 
a  singular  impression  of  serenity  and  lightness. 
The  sight  of  the  old  lady  sleeping,  so  near  to  the 
end,  far  from  inspiring  in  her  sorrow,  added  still 
more  to  her  surprising  calmness  ;  it  was  the  arrival 
in  port  of  a  tired  soul,  the  end  of  a  dreary  voyage, 
the  repose  after  the  battle  of  life. 

An  hour  before  Estelle  envied  her  aunt  for  being 
so  near  death  ;  she  was  almost  jealous  of  the  peace 
that  awaited  her;  now  she  felt  a  new  strength  ;  life 
became  dear  in  proportion  to  the  struggle  under 
which  she  found  herself,  her  hands  might  be  torn 
upon  the  thorns,  the  red  blood  might  mark  the  path 
by  staining  the  dust  of  the  road  ;  they  now  fought 
not  only  for  honor  but  for  another  thing  also,  which 
without  honor  would  be  worthless,  but  which  honor 
would  raise  to  its  proper  dignity.  ' 

At  the  thought  of  that  mysterious  thing,  Estelle 
felt  her  heart  swell  with  modesty  and  joy  ;  through 
her  tears,  humiliation,  tortures  of  all  kinds,  he,  the 
unknown  visitor  had  come,  the  silent  guest  who 
knocks  not  at  the  door,  but  who  comes  as  master  of 
the  house,  widow  without  being  a  wife,  strong  in  all 
the  delicacy  of  the  maiden,  Mme.  de  Beaurand  felt 
that  she  loved. 


192  UN   MYSTERE. 

The  dull  anger  that  she  had  felt  toward  Raymond 
suddenly  ceased,  and  was  replaced  by  a  profound 
pity,  and  without  admitting  it  to  herself,  had  she 
dared  to  look  clearly,  she  would  have  found  that 
she  was  thankful  that  he  was  dead,  at  least  since 
she  was  at  liberty  now  to  marry  Theodore  Benoist. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

Toward  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening,  at  the 
moment  when  the  rays  of  the  sun  ceased  to  tint  the 
upper  windows  of  the  mansion,  death  came  to  Mme. 
Montclar  with  the  twilight,  and  like  it,  softly  and 
stealthily. 

When  Benoist  came  at  nine  o'clock,  he  found 
Estelle  very  calm,  seated  at  her  writing-desk  writ- 
ing letters. 

The  domestics  were  too  well  accustomed  to  the 
ways  of  the  young  man  to  be  astonished  to  see 
him.  come  under  such  circumstances;  but  thereafter 
it  would  be  otherwise.  Theodore  gave  to  Mme.  de 
Beaurand  all  the  necessary  information  and  instruc- 
tions, that  she  might  not  have  need  of  appealing  to 
him  so  frequently. 

They  were  both  seated  at  the  same  table,  facing 
each  other  ;  he  taking  the  notes,  she  directing  them 
or  hunting  the  addresses.  A  grand  sensation  of 
calmness  was  in  their  hearts  upon  that  warm  evening 
of  spring-time,  under  the  tranquil  calmness"  of  the 
shaded  light.  A  complete  silence  reigned  in  the 
hotel  which  death  had  saddened  for  the  second  time 
in  less  than  thirteen  months.  But,  as  the  suicide  of 
Raymond  had  brought  trouble  'and  confusion,  the 
foreseen  death  of  Mme.  Montclar  brought  gravity 
and  reflection. 

That  feeling  of  calmness,  of  silence,  of  repose,  was 
so  strong  that  Mme.  de  Beaurand  felt  the  necessity 
of  breaking  it.  Alone  with  him  whom  she  loved,  she 

193 


194  UN   MTSTERE. 

felt  herself  intimidated,  as  though  she  never  had  a 
confidential  talk  with  him. 

Leaving  him  with  the  cards,  she  opened  the  door 
of  the  neighboring  room,  where  Mme.  Montclar 
rested  upon  the  bed,  surrounded  by  candles  and 
tapers.  A  sheet  of  pale  light  came  through  the  open 
door  into  the  tranquil  salon.  Benoist  raised  his  eyes 
and  saw  nothing  but  the  reflection.  In  that  clear- 
ness, which,  by  contrast,  seemed  glaring,  the  form  of 
Estelle,  elegant  and  virginal  in  her  dress  of  black, 
seemed  sculptured  from  dark  marble.  He  could  not 
see  her  face,  but  the  black,  wavy,  lustrous  hair 
fastened  at  her  neck,  of  which  he  could  only  see  the 
outline,  seemed  very  life-like. 

At  the  end  of  the  room  she  was  looking  at  the 
dead,  and  to  her  she  confided  her  thoughts.  What 
would  her  protectrice  have  said  had  she  known  the 
truth  ?  Would  she  have  permitted  Estelle  to  have 
forsaken  her  illusory  fidelity  ?  What  would  she 
have  said  had  she  known  that  her  sole  ambition 
was  to  many  Theodore  Benoist,  vintner;  she  a 
Beaurand  ? 

"  No,  I  am  not  a  Beaurand,"  thought  Estelle,  the 
writing  and  the  ceremony  that  for  a  moment  made 
me  the  wife  of  Raymond  did  not  make  me  a  Beau- 
rand. I  am,  notwithstanding  all  these  sophisms, 
still  Mile.  Brunaire,  free  to  marry  whomsoever  I 
please.  And  that  which  I  could  not  do  during  your 
life  for  fear  of  vexing  you.  my  dear  protectrice,  I 
shall  do  now  that  you  are  dead,  providing  that  I 
shall  be  able  to  wash  away  the  bloody  stain  which 
your  nephew  placed  upon  my  nuptial  robe.  I  have 
nobody  now  to  think  for  but  myself,  and  in  the 


UN    MYSTKRE.  195 

future  all  my  time,  all  my  strength  shall  be  con- 
secrated to  seeking  my  own  welfare. 

Her  young  face  had  taken  an  expression  of 
resolved  firmness  when  she  returned  to  the  table 
where  Theodore  had  remained. 

"  What  were  you  thinking  of  ?  "  said  he  naturally. 

"Of  the  future,"  said  she,  in  the  same  manner. 
UI  have  no  peace  in  the  present  because  I  have  not 
discovered  the  truth." 

He  thought  immediately  of  the  envelope  and  was 
ready  to  show  it  to  her.  But  how  should  he  tell 
the  woman  to  what  a  degree  he  had  doubted  her, 
since  so  many  words  had  been  exchanged  between 
them,  and  that  they  rested  equally  upon  the  same 
understanding?  Even  the  gesture  that  had  thrown 
Estelle  ujion  his  heart  could  be  interpreted  as  an 
expression  of  fraternal  sympathy. 

Benoist  had  never  trembled  before  anything;  this 
time  he  literally  shuddered  upon  thinking  that  one 
word  would  expose  him  to  the  loss  of  Estelle  for- 
ever. He  knew  her  to  be  proud;  the  wound  which 
he  might  inflict  upon  her  self-esteem  might  never 
be  healed.  He  was  afraid,  upon  thinking  that  she 
never  said  that  she  loved  him,  ,that,  perhaps,  she 
never  would. 

"  I  must  be  assured  of  her,"  said  he  to  himself, 
before  I  expose  myself  to  her  indignation.  "  ~\Ye 
are  both  to  search,"  said  he  aloud,  and  we  shall 
henceforth  have  a  vast  field  of  action. 

Having  finished  his  task  he  arose. 

"  I  will  return  to-morrow,"  said  he,  "  you  will  not 
go  to  the  church,  you  should  take  no  part  in  it,  you 
.will  receive  nobody." 


196  UN    MYSTKKE. 

"Can  I  do  so?"  asked  Estelle. 

"  You  arc  ill,  and  that  is  why — to-morrow," 

They  clasped  hands,  and  she  found  she  was  alone, 
but  not  isolated. 

The  next  twenty-four  hours  passed  as  pass  days  of 
that  kind,  at  times  quickly  and  then  slowly.  At  last 
the  ceremony  took  place.  The  funeral  drew  a  large 
crowd  of  the  curious  and  of  old  friends  who  repented 
at  having  allowed  her  so  grievously  to  die  in  soli- 
tude, this  woman  for  whom  they  had  so  much  esteem 
and  affection,  there  were  also  reporters  there,  in  quest 
of  news.  All  the  people  were  evidently  disappointed 
at  not  seeing  Estelle.  The  sight  of  the  young  widow 
would  have  been  a  fine  repast  for  the  crowd  and  for 
the  reporters;  but  then  it  had  to  pass,  not  without 
cruel  words  for  the  absent  one,  whose  presence 
would  inevitably  have  drawn  others  no  less  cruel. 

Benoist,  lost  in  the  number,  listened  and  recorded 
all  with  an  unpitying  precision.  His  generous  nature 
was  exasperated  by  the  contemptibleness  and  the 
slanderousness,  impersonal  as  it  were,  of  the  crowd, 
where  each  one  added  some  perfidious  word  with- 
out thinking  of  the  consequences,  that  they  might, 
like  the  rest,  have  the  appearance  of  being  well 
informed,  and  perhaps  to  show  some  disposition. 
He  became  ferocious  upon  hearing  these  libels, 
and  he,  like  the  Roman  Emperor,  wished  that  he 
might  see  in  that  whole  mass  but  one  head  that  he 
might  strike  it  down  with  one  fell  blow. 

He  preserved  from  the  first  to  the  last  the  load  of 
slanders  as  he  followed  the  procession,  from  the  Rue 
de  Lille,  to  the  church  of  Saint-Thomas  Aquinas, 
from  Saint-Thonias  Aquinas  to.  Pere-Lachaise,  and 


UN   MYSTERE.  197 

he  amassed  enough  anger  to  last  him  for  months, 
for  years;  profound  anger  that  he  hud  been  one  of 
them,  that  he  like  them,  had  judged  lightly  of  her; 
his  only  superiority  being  that  he  had  never  opened 
his  mouth  to  anyone,  Andre  Bolvin  having  vainly 
tried  to  draw  from  him  a  formal  avowal  of  his  sus- 
picions. 

A  young  officer  was  remarkable  for  the  causticity 
of  his  remarks,  he  followed  the  convoy  on  foot,  talk- 
ing with  his  friends  and  making  shockingly  rude 
remarks  about  Mme.  de  Beaurand. 

"  I  represent  my  family,"  said  he  to  a  corpulent 
man  who  followed  painfully  close  upon  the  hearse 
ascending  to  the  cemetery,  and  besides  I  am  very 
willing  to  render  to  Mme.  Montclar  this  slight  testi- 
mony of  my  esteem;  she  was  an  excellent  woman, 
worthy,  and  the  particular  friend  of  my  mother-in- 
law;  but  Mme.  de  Beaurand,  after  all  the  shame  that 
she  has  brought  upon  the  name  she  bears,  I  hope  will 
realize  that  she  has  compromised  it  enough;  she  has 
nothing  more  to  do  but  disappear  and  hide  in  a  hole." 

Benoist  could  not  resist  the  demon  that  had  pur- 
sued him  for  two  hours.  Upon  the  pavement,  made 
slippery  by  a  spring  shower,  he^  made  a  mistep, 
throwing  the  young  officer  rudely. 

"  Attention  there,"  said  he,  with  a  gesture  of 
humor,  continuing  his  way. 

The  convoy  entered  the  cemetery.  Benoist  knew 
well  that  the  moment  was  badly  chosen.  He 
waited  until  the  inhumation  was  finished  and  when 
the  crowd  had  dispersed,  taking  the  arm  of  one  of 
his  friends  whom  he  intuitively  chose,  he  followed 
close  upon  the  steps  of  the  young  officer.  A  short 


198  UN   MYSTERE. 

distance  from  the  gate,  Theodore  let  his  cane  drop 
between  the  legs  of  his  unknown  enemy,  in  a  way 
that  made  him  almost  fall. 

"  Awkwardness  !  "  said  the  young  man,  with  an 
unseemly  epithet. 

Their  eyes  crossed  and  the  young  officer  under- 
stood that  it  was  not  the  result  of  awkwardness. 

"It  was  you  who  tripped  me  but  a  short  time 
ago  ? "  said  he. 

"  Yes,  Monsieur,"  said  Benoist,  returning  the  glare. 

The  officer  but  ill  retained  a  not  pleasant  expres- 
sion ;  the  quarrel  was  entered  upon ;  in  less  than 
half  a  minute  notwithstanding  the  efforts  of  their 
friends,  who  did  not  understand  it,  the  young  men 
had  exchanged  cards. 

"Hubert  d'Aulmoye,  Lieutenant  of  the  9th  Chas- 
seurs," said  Benoist,  reading  it.  "  That  will  do  him 
a  great  deal  of  good.  That  trifler  is  very  young. 
They  ought  not  to  let  him  go  alone  on  the  streets." 

"  Theodore  Benoist ;  what  can  be  the  matter  with 
him  ? "  said  young  d'Aulmoye  at  the  same  time. 

"  He  is  a  brave  officer,  who  has  passed  through  his 
trials,"  said  one  of  those  who  came  up  to  him. 
"You  have  a  bad  affair  upon  your  hands,  my  friend." 

"  But,  then,  what  is  the  matter  with  him,  the 
boor?"  retorted  the  unconscious  culprit,  not  without 
some  seeming  truth.  "He  trips  me,  and  I  say  noth- 
ing to  him ;  he  put  his  cane  between  my  legs — I 
demand  that  which  he  would  have  demanded  of  me. 
Truly  it  was  not  a  matter  of  chance.  I  go  to  the 
interrement  of  a  woman,  whom  I  do  not  know  ;  I 
do  not  know  that  I  ever  saw  her  three  times  in  my 
life.  My  father-in-law  is  in  the  country.  I  am  on 


tTN   MYSTERE.  199 

leave,  and  I  have  to  get  into  an  affair  on  account 
of  that.  It  is  a  little  hard ;  I  don't  understand  it 
at  all." 

No  one  could  enlighten  him.  After  having  lost 
themselves  in  conjecturing,  they  ended  by  selecting 
witnesses. 

The  friend  who  accompanied  Benoist  did  not  yet 
understand  it.  Such  an  affront  on  the  part  of  a  man 
always  recognized  as  being  sound-minded  was  abso- 
lutely inexplicable. 

"  Well,"  said  Benoist,  "  to  stop  remonstrances,  let 
us  say  that  it  is  a  military  grudge ;  there  are  in  the 
Army  certain  arms  that  are  in  more  or  less  open 
rivalry.  Suppose  that  I,  an  old  dragoon,  have  a 
mortal  dislike  for  the  chasseurs.  That  will  seem 
possible  to  you,  will  it  not  ?" 

"  Benoist,"  said  the  other,  suddenly  enlightened, 
there  is  a  woman  at  the  bottom." 

"  A  woman  ?  What  an  idea !  Do  people  fight 
in  these  days  for  women?  I  tell  you  that  he  dis 
pleases  me,  the  fool.  I  assure  you  that  is  sufficient. 

The  seconds  took  a  strange  dislike  to  arranging 
the  preliminaries  of  the  duel,  but  Benoist  was  firm 
and  d'Aulmoye  hot-headed.  The  duel  was  arranged 
for  the  morning  of  the  next  day,  with  as  moderate 
conditions  as  possible. 

"Oh  heavens!"  said  Theodore,  philosophical^, 
when  he  learned  them.  "  I  don't  want  to  kill  him, 
the  little  joker!  I  only  want  to  whip  him.  But 
since  our  rules  deny  me  that  privilege,  I  will  just 
bleed  him  a  little.  He  will  bear  that  better." 

And  being  assured  that  it  was  only  five  o'clock, 
he  determined  to  visit  Mine,  de  Beaurand,  to  tell 
her  of  the  ceremony. 


CHAPTEB  XXVII. 

The  bells  of  Saint-Thomas  Aquinas  were  still  toll- 
ing the  departure  of  the  cortege,  when  Madame  de 
Beaurand  heard  the  rustling  of  a  dress  and  little  feet 
in  the  hall,  which  she  well  kne\v.  She  opened  her 
door  and  received  in  her  arms  her  little  friend  Odette. 

"My  dear,"  said  she,  almost  choking  her  with 
kisses,  "  how  is  it  you  have  succeeded  in  passing,  not- 
withstanding my  orders  ? " 

"  Oh,  I  said  that  you  had  forgotten  that  I  was  to 
come,  that  it  was  understood  between  us,  and  here 
I  am.  My  poor,  'little  mother'  and  you  are  an 
orphan  once  more." 

That  word,  almost  childlike,  touched  the  heart  of 
Estelle  and  brought  tears  to  her  eyes.  They 
remained  for  a  moment  in  each  other's  embrace, 
imbibing  an  indescribable  sweetness  from  weeping 
together. 

At  the  end  of  a  moment  Odette  dried  her  eyes, 
and  said  : 

"  My  husband  follows  the  procession ;  mamma 
persuaded  him,  and  he  could  not  do  otherwise. 
Papa's  in  the  country,  that's  very  bad.  Hubert 
promised  me  that  he  would  go  to  the  cemetery,  and 
I — I'm  here.  I  could  not  stay  away  ;  I  wanted  to 
see  you  so  much." 

"  Your  husband  is  very  good ;  it's  very  kind  of 
him  to  do  so,"  said  Estelle. 

All  at  once  she  realized  that  she  had  not  received 
either  a  visit  or  a  card  from  M.  d'Aulmoye. 

200 


tJN   MYSTERE. 

"Does  he  know  that  you  are  here?"  added  she 
with  some  vivacity. 

The  little  head  of  Odette  fell  upon  her  dark  cloth 
jacket. 

"  He  knows  it,"  said  she,  embarrassed  without 
knowing  it ;  "  that  is  to  say — don't  look  at  me  so, 
Estelle ;  you  know  that  I  never  could  fib  when  you 
looked  in  my  eyes — no,  he  does  not  know  it.  But 
what  difference  does  that  make?  Now,  that  I  am 
married,  I  have  a  right  to  do  what  I  please.  I  can  not 
enumerate  to  him  in  detail  all  the  stores  into  which 
he  has  taken  me.  Isn't  that  the  same  thing  ? " 

Mme.  de  Beaurand  followed  to  herself  the  line  of 
her  thought,  while  Odette,  with  a  slightly  feverish 
volubility,  continued  explaining  to  her  how  she  had 
arranged  her  life,  with  a  complete  innocence,  in  a 
way  to  act  to  her  humor,  without  openly  deceiving 
her. 

"  My  little  girl,"  said  she  with  a  tranquil  authority, 
when  her  young  friend  had  stopped  out  of  breath, 
''  why  have  you  not  told  your  husband  that  you 
came  to  see  me  ?  " 

"  Because — because,  listen,  do  you  want  to  know 
the  truth  ?  He  is  mean.  That  is  to  say,  he  isn't  the 
least  bit  mean  in  the  world,  but  he  has  a  bad  tongue. 
O,  Estelle,  you  can't  imagine  how  they  blackguard 
in  the  regiments.  O,  they  told  some  things  ;  some 
things  that  would  make  you  shudder,  and  he 
believed  all  they  told  him  ;  but  that  don't  prove  that 
he  is  mean ;  for  example,  to  believe  like  that,  the 
meanest  things  in  the  world  ;  anyway,  we  have  quar- 
reled ;  it  is  our  first  quarrel.  It  made  me  awfully  sad." 

Upon  her  remembrance  of  this  first  quarrel,  the 


202  UN  MYSTERE. 

tears  of  the  young  wife  flowed  easy  and  free,  like 
a  May  shower.  Estelle  smiled,  absorbed  in  seeing 
her  cry  so  easily. 

"  O,  they  said  something  bad  of  me?''  said  she, 
tranquilly. 

"  Something  horrible.  You  know  it  as  well  as  I 
do.  He  had  no  right  to  think  so  bad  of  people  as 
that.  It's  villainous;  I  told  him  so.  Then  he 
mocked  me;  that  made  me  mad.  I  told  him  that 
he  was  a  coward  to  attack  a  woman  who  had  no 
one  to  defend  her.  There,  I  was  right,  that  is 
clear,  isn't  it?  Then  he  got  very  mad.  O,  awful 
mad.  You  can't  imagine  it;  and,  as  I  scolded  him, 
he  said  he  didn't  know  that  I  had  so  much  haughti- 
ness. As  for  me,  you  know  if  I  have  any  pride. 
Finally,  he  told  me  that  he  wouldn't  permit  me  to 
see  you.  Frankly,  Estelle,  judge  f  or  yourself,  if  that 
was  the  time  to  tell  him  that  I  came  here." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Madame  de  Beaurand,  squeezing 
Odette's  hand. 

"No.  You  can  speak  of  it  in  an  easy  tone;  but  if 
you  had  been  in  my  place — in  short,  I  didn't  tell 
him ;  nor  will  I  ever  tell  him,  but  I'll  come  and.  see 
you  as  often  as  I  please." 

Estelle  kissed  the  little  face  tenderly;  the  young 
wife  seemed  like  a  child,  it  was  impossible  to  treat 
her  as  a  woman.  Would  it  be  possible  to  get  into 
that  little  head  the  notion  of  a  duty  which  nobody, 
it  seemed,  had  taken  pains  to  teach  her? 

"  Listen,  Odette,"  said  she,  with  great  tenderness, 
"you  know  that  I  love  you.  I'm  going  to  tell  you 
something.  Of  all  the  young  women  that  I  know, 
not  one  has  given  me  a  single  mark  of  sympathy. 


TIN   MYSTERE.  203 

At  present,  now  that  Madame  Montclar  is  dead, 
there  is  perhaps  not  a  woman  in  the  world  who  cares 
anything  for  me,  except  you  only.  You  may  then 
believe  that  your  friendship  is  precious.  Listen  to 
me  and  understand.  More  than  your  friendship,  a 
great  deal  more,  your  esteem  moves  me  to  the  bot- 
tom of  my  heart.  You,  my  poor  child — you  have  an 
honest  and  kind  heart;  you  do  no  think  of  useless 
wrong ;  you  have  to  esteem  the  soul  that  you  like. 
For  that  I  thank  you  and  I  love  you.  But  as  for  me, 
Odette,  I  shall  not  like  you  if  you  take  upon  your- 
self the  habit  of  dissimulation  to  your  husband's 
face. 

"  Dissimulation  ? "  said  Odette,  surprised,  almost 
shuddering. 

"  Yes,  my  dear  child,  that  is  the  word.  Your  hus- 
band ought  to  know  all  your  actions  ;  you  have  not 
the  right  to  hide  one  from  him." 

"  Indeed,  does  he  tell  me  all  that  he  does  ?  Does 
he  tell  me  every  place  he  has  been  ?  When  I  ask 
him  he  laughs." 

"  It  isn't  the  same  thing.  You  see,  Odette,  there 
is  no  reason  why  you  should  tell  him  all  the  minute 
details  of  your  life,  but  you  ought  to  live  in  such  a 
way  that,  if  he  should  ask  you,  you  should  never  be 
afraid  to  tell  him  the  truth." 

Odette  bowed  her  head  in  confusion ;  the  moral 
atmosphere  of  her  people  had  never  let  her  hear 
such  austere  words,  perhaps,  she  felt  that  Estelle  was 
right. 

"You  should  tell  him  that  you  came  to  see  me," 
continued  Mme.  de  Beaurand. 

"  I  never  will !  "  cried  Odette,  impetuously. 


204:  UN    MYSTERE. 

| 

"  You  should  tell  him,  though  not  immediately, 
if  you  don't  want  to,  should  he  not  speak  of  it.  You 
should  tell  him,  because  if  he  should  happen  to  learn 

•i 55 

"  How  should  he  learn  it  ? " 

"  I  do  not  know ;  perhaps  by  an  indiscretion 
of  the  servants.  If  he  should  come  to  know  it, 
it  would  be  very  humiliating  for  you,  and  then  your 
life  would  be  poisoned,  for  he  would  no  longer  have 
any  confidence  in  you,  and  if  that  should  happen, 
you  see,  my  child,  it  would  almost  be  better  for 
you,  young  and  charming  as  you  are,  to  die  that 
very  instant." 

She  had  closed  her  maternal  arms  over  the  shiv- 
ering shoulders  of  her  "petite  fille"  and  held  her 
smothered  against  her  breast,  while  her  eyes,  staring 
vacantly,  remembered  the  bitter  time  when  the  hard 
look  of  Benoist  rested  upon  her  like  that  of  a  judge. 

"  Confidence,  Odette,  is  the  first  condition  of  hap- 
piness in  marriage.  One  may  be  deceived,  one  may 
commit  faults,  but  if  each  one  is  sure  that  the 
other  never  deceives,  the  human  errors  will  be  only 
the  inevitable  part  of  the  cares  which  await  us  in  this 
world.  And  they  will  love  each  other,  notwith- 
standing the  quarrels.  You  love  him,  your  hus- 
band, do  you  not?" 

"  O,  yes,  when  he  isn't  mean." 

"  He  is  not  mean  ;  he  is  young.  He  will  correct 
himself,  you  see.  There,  you'll  cry  no  more  ?  Ah, 
well,  some  day  when  he  is  in  a  good  humor  tell  him 
that  you  come  to  see  me  and  that  you  did  not  intend 
to  do  wrong,  and  that  you  will  come  no  more,  Odette, 
never  any  more — at  least,  not  until  he  brings  you 
here  himself." 


UN   MYSTERE.  205 

"  Then  you  don't  want  to  see  me  any  more  ? "  said 
the  young  woman,  starting  with  surprise. 

"  I  deprive  myself  of  my  only  joy,"  answered 
Estelle,  squeezing  the  two  hands  persuasively,  "  but 
it  is  my  duty,  my  child,  the  same  as  it  is  yours." 

Odette  looked  into  the  eyes  of  her  "petite  mere" 
and  read  there  so  much  resignation,  so  much  sacri- 
fice that  her  soul  was  stirred.  A  nobleness  that  she 
had  never  suspected  revealed  itself  to  her  for  the 
first  time,  causing  in  her  respect  which  resembled 
fear.  She  submitted  with  no  more  resistance. 

"  You're  going  to  detest  my  husband,"  said  she, 
with  some  shame  for  having  spoken  ill  of  him. 

"No,"  answered  Estelle,  with  calmness,  which 
made  her  kindness  sweet  and  imposing.  "  I  have 
not  the  least  animosity  for  him.  And  now,  my 
child,  you  had  better  go  home,  that  he  may  not  be 
angry  at  your  absence.  Go,  but  I  love  you  ever  so 
much.  It  is  because  I  love  you  that  I  send  you 
away." 

"  I  can't  see  you  any  more  ? "  said  Odette,  almost 
suffocated  with  tears. 

"Perhaps;  but  what's  the  difference,  since  you 
know  that  I  love  you  ? " 

"  But  I  will  write  to  you." 

"  No,  you  would  then  have  to  deceive  in  your  let- 
ters. Nothing — that  would  be  better." 

The  child  passed  her  arm  around  the  neck  of  her 
friend  and  sobbed. 

"  My  friend,  my  'little  mother,'  adieu." 

"  Au  revoir,  my  dear." 

She  led  Odette,  who  was  choked  with  tears,  to  the 
great  staircase,  and  watched  her  descend,  so  slight, 


206  UN   MYSTERE. 

so  delicate,  so  little  a  woman,  so  little  prepared  for 
the  struggles  of  life.  Their  eyes  met  once  again  in 
a  kindly  look,  and  the  door  closed  upon  the  last  lady 
friend  of  Estelle. 

Mme.  de  Beaurand  returned  to  her  room  and 
seated  herself,  her  hands  clasped  over  her  knees, 
thinking  of  a  thousand  sad  things,  of  the  death,  of 
the  renunciation  of  a  long  life  devoid  of  happiness. 
But  she  was  not  sad,  for  there  was  to  her  an  invisi- 
ble star  whose  rays  she  felt. 

A  little  after  six  o'clock,  Benoist  came.  She  was 
surprised  to  find  him  so  restless,  so  occupied.  He 
who  was  ordinarily  grave  and  easy  going.  After  he 
had  told  her  in  two  words  that  nothing  had  troubled 
the  obsequies,  he  in  his  turn  questioned. 

"Well,  have  you  seen  anybody?" 

"  The  truth  is  I  did  receive  one  visitor,"  answered 
Estelle  with  a  half  smile.  "I  have  yet  one  friend, 
notwithstanding  all,  a  companion  of  my  childhood 
Mile,  de  Polrey.  To-day  Madame  D'Aulmoye." 

"  D'Aulmoye,"  repeated  Benoist,  thinking  that  he 
had  misunderstood. 

"  Madame  Hubert  D'Aulmoye.  Her  husband  was 
a  Lieutenant  of  the  Eleventh  Hussars,  but  he  has 
been  re-stationed  and  has  come  to  Paris." 

Benoist  became  very  serious. 

"  You  said  that  the  wife  of  this  Monsieur  is  your 
friend?"  said  he,  without  raising  his  eyes. 

"  I  think  so,  the  poor  child,  she  has  come  twice  in 
secret  to  see  me.  She  has  faith  in  me ;  but  it  is  she 
only.  I  told  her  not  to  return — you  understand  ? 
She  has  been  married  a  few  months,  her  husband  is 
Jjke.  the  rest  j  he  has  no  reason  for  liking  me,  as  for 


UN  MYSTERE.  207 

her — she  is  young,  hardly  eighteen  ;  she  commences 
life — she  will  have  to  be  careful  of  herself,  since  she 
has  the  good  luck  to  love  her  husband." 

"  She  loves  him  ? "  asked  Benoist. 

"  Yes,  she  loves  him  and  he  loves  her ;  it  was  a 
marriage  of  love.  Poor  child,  for  the  compassion 
she  has  borne  me,  for  her  chivalrous  devotion,  I  wish 
that  the  day  would  come  when  I  could  return  it  to 
her.  At  present,  I  have  rendered  the  only  service 
in  my  power;  I  told  her  not  to  return.  She  still 
calls  me  her  'little  mother'  in  remembrance  of  the 
convent;  she  touches  me  I  assure  you." 

"  Then  you  interest  yourself  very  much  in  her?" 
insisted  Benoist. 

"  As  much  as  though  she  belonged  to  me,  a  daughter 
or  a  sister.  Why  ? " 

"  O,  I  wanted  to  know.  The  number  of  those 
whom  you  love  seem  to  be  restricted  enough  to  be 
seriously  interesting." 

"  Is  it  not  ? "  asked  she  with  a  half  smile  so  seduc- 
tive, so  sympathetic,  that  Benoist  lost  his  coolness. 

"  I  think  I  shall  go,"  said  he,  "  I  am  fatigued. 
Will  you  give  me  your  hand? " 

She  presented  her  beautiful  open  hand  ;  he  placed 
it  in  his  own  and  she  affectionately  placed  her  left 
hand  upon  it. 

"  Good  evening,"  said  she,  "  and  I  thank  you.  For 
all  that  you  have  done  for  me,  thanks." 

He  respectfully  kissed  one  after  the  other,  the  two 
hands  and  went  out,  his  mind  greatly  troubled. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

Theodore  was  not  content  with  himself ;  the  very 
lively  pleasure  which  he  had  found  in  provoking  the 
young  lieutenant  annoyed  him  under  the  certitude 
that  Mme.  de  Beaurand  would  be  saddened  to  know 
that  he  had  wounded  the  husband  of  her  little  friend. 
But  then,  how  could  he  now  prevent  it  ?  Had  not  a 
distressing  concurrence  of  events  made  him  address 
precisely  the  only  man  whom  he  could  not  hurt  with- 
out regetting  it.  The  affair  was  too  far  gone  to 
stop  it  now  and,  besides  at  the  remembrance  of  the 
words  pronounced  by  the  imprudent  chasseur,  Be- 
noist  felt  his  blood  boil,  his  good  sense  told  him 
repeatedly  that  he  had  been  extremely  imprudent, 
but  his  anger  made  him  tremble  with  impatience. 

The  quarrel  was  so  ridiculously  incomprehensible 
that  the  public  and  the  first  witnesses  sought  for  a 
more  serious  motive  to  explain  it. 

What  difference  did  it  make  if  the  name  of  Estelle 
was  pronounced  ?  The  young  man  had  only  said 
that  which  the}*  themselves  thought. 

Another  care  harrassed  him.  Mme.  de  Beaurand 
ought  not  to  know  that  he  had  fought  for  her. 
Would  she  not  mistake  him  either  for  a  fool  or  a 
brute  for  having  provoked  an  unknown  individual  in 
that  way  ? 

"  It  was  said,"  thought  Benoist  sadly,  "  that  face 
to  face  with  her  I  would  settle  myself  'in  a  way  to 
commit  nothing  but  folly." 

The  morning  came,  he  dressed  himself  to  go  and 

208 


UN   MYSTEKE.  209 

meet  his  adversary  in  a  park  which  a  friend  had 
obligingly  placed  at  their  disposition.  The  morn- 
ing was  exquisite;  one  of  those  fine  fogs,  which 
announce  beautiful  days,  floated  over  Paris,  climb- 
ing the  hill  of  Yille  d'Avray,  blurring  the  precise 
lines  of  the  monuments,  softening  the  colors  of  the 
masses  of  verdure  and  giving  to  the  immense  fields 
of  stone,  the  softness  of  marine  horizons. 

"I  can  not  slash  that  fellow"  thought  Benoist, 
"  his  little  wife  would  hate  me,  would  think  horribly 
of  me.  And  Mine,  de  Beaurand  would  not  be 
pleased.  I  shall  have  to  let  myself  be  bled  like  a 
chicken.  My  only  hope  is  that  he  will  not  be  too 
awkward,  for  if  he  should  be  he  might  be  capable  of 
unintentionally  running  me  through.  Such  a  misera- 
ble adventure ! " 

He  thought  of  his  mother,  who  at  that  time  was 
probably  opening  her  eyes  to  the  g?ad  sun  of  spring-1 
time;  he  could  see  her  at  the  window  looking  over 
the  wonderful  valley  extending  at  her  feet,  her  eyes 
shaded  with  her  hand,  looking  at  the  vines  upon  the 
hillside,  unfolding  their  little,  white,  cottony  leaves. 

"My  poor,  dear  mother,"  said  he  to  himself,  "if 
she  only  knew  what  a  fool  her  son  had  shown  him- 
self to  be,  would  she  not  be  angry  ?  And  I  would 
merit  it.  Let  me,  however,  look  to  it  that  he  does 
not  care  for  me." 

Young  D'Aulmoye  contrarily  was  burning  with  a 
most  war-like  disposition.  Upon  entering  his  house 
the  evening  before,  much  warmed  by  the  prepara- 
tions for  his  duel,  he  had  not  remarked,  happily  for 
her,  the  red  eyes  and  the  embarrassed  manners  of 
his  wife. 


210  UN   MYSTERE. 

Upon  leaving  Estelle,  she  was  so  much  impressed 
\viih  her  duty  that  she  would  have  made  her  confes- 
sion immediately ;  she  was  prepared  with  a  great 
effort  of  courage  to  admit  her  first  and  second  visits, 
being  well  decided  to  make  the  grandeur  of  the  soul 
of  her  friend  apparent.  She  hoped  to  be  able  to 
make  her  husband  know  the  magnanimity  of  her 
misknown  character,  and  her  little  imagination  could 
already  see  him  crossing  the  threshold  of  the  hotel 
de  Beaurand  with  her  upon  his  arm,  repenting  and 
confused,  ready  to  demand  and  to  obtain  her  pardon. 

The  Lieutenant,  who  was  naturally  jolly,  entered 
the  house  that  day,  however,  with  extreme  ill-humor. 
After  his  first  word  she  felt  that  he  could  not  deceive 
his  wife,  whom  he  adored,  and  remarked  that  it  was 
caused  by  grave  £re-occupations  in  the  service.  Im- 
mediately after  dinner,  he  shut  himself  in  his  room, 
with  a  roll  of  charts  brought  from  the  armory,  and 
announced  that  he  had  some  work  to  do  for  the  min- 
ister, and  that  he  would  have  to  work  all  night  as 
the  charts  had  to  be  returned  at  six  o'clock  in  the 
morning  of  the  next  day. 

The  seeming  untruth  of  this  statement  did  not  shock 
Odette,  she  was  too  much  troubled  herself  to  not 
appreciate  the  happy  chance  afforded  her  to  defer 
her  avowal;  she  kissed  her  husband  tenderly,  hoping 
that  he  would  not  fatigue  himself. 

"After  all,"  said  she  to  him,  "  it  is  not  as  hard  as 
to  dance  until  1  o'clock  in  the  morning." 

Perfectly  reassured  on  his  part,  the  young  Lieuten- 
ant was  not  the  less  angry  at  the  unknown  man 
whose  singular  aggression  brought  him  a  disagree- 
able night  under  the  shade  of  the  emotions  insepara- 
ble from  a  duel.  He  had  fought  two  or  three  times 


UN   MYSTEEE.  211 

and  did  not  take  the  affair  tragically,  but  he  took  it 
seriously  and  that  put  him  in  a  very  disagreeable 
humor.  It  was  upon  inquiring,  as  he  ought  to  about 
him  with  whom  he  was  about  to  cross  his  steel,  that 
he  learned  that  not  only  was  he  a  gentleman,  but 
that  he  was  also  an  old  friend  of  Beaurand;  that  gave 
him  some  satisfaction,  but  it  was  not  sufficient  to 
quiet  him.  An  unqualified  aggression  in  a  place  as 
sacred  as  Pere-Lachaise  had  provoked  in  him,  with- 
out calming  his  anger,  an  eruption  of  phrases  entirely 
of  that  class  which  modern  language  irreverently 
places  under  the  designation  of  stereotyped.  He 
presented  himself  upon  the  ground  Avith  the  firm 
intentionjof  giving  a  rude  lesson  to  his  adversary. 

The  sword  was  the  weapon  chosen  and  that  per- 
mitted Benoist  to  hope  for  a  pleasing  success ;  he 
perceived  immediately  that  d'Aulmoye  had  no  inten- 
tions of  sparing  him.  More  disgusted  with  himself 
than  he  could  have  believed,  he  defended  himself  as 
best  he  could,  trying  not  to  wound  his  furious  enemy, 
and  that  was  not  easy. 

The  young  Lieutenant  was  not  sufficiently  master 
of  himself  to  perceive  the  intentions  of  Theodore  and 
that  saved  him  from  a  cruel  \voun4  to  his  self-esteem ; 
he  was  soon  fatigued  having  fought  too  fast ;  at  the 
end  of  a  few  moments  he  could  not  see  clearly.  A 
terrible  thrust  which  would  have  pierced  the  breast 
of  Benoist,  through  and  through,  passed  between 
his  arm  and  his  body,  only  scratching  the  skin  of 
his  right  wrist.  D'Aulmoye  was  completely  at  the 
mercy  of  his  adversary,  who  contented  himself  with 
throwing  up  his  sword  and  stopping. 

The  duel  was  terminated  before  the  Lieutenant, 


212  UN    MYSTERE. 

dazed  by  the  adventure,  comprehended  the  situation. 
As  he  was  neither  a  fool  nor  mean,  he  felt  a  real 
consideration  for  the  man  who,  so  furiously  attacked, 
had  courteously  spared  his  life.  They  shook  hands, 
the  most  cordially  in  the  world,  and  each  one  went 
his  way. 

The  scratch  Benoist  had  received  amounted  to 
nothing ;  he  however,  had  it  slightly  dressed,  then 
waited  for  his  carriage  with  his  seconds ;  the  almost 
unavoidable  dinner  was  eluded  by  common  accord, 
and  soon  he  found  himself  at  his  own  home,  free  to 
meditate  at  his  leisure. 

Hardly  ten  o'clock !  Madame  Benoist  was  going 
through  her  vineyard  under  the  grand  sun  which 
could  not  but  tan  her  fine  skin ;  she  went  with  slow 
steps,  stopping  here  or  there  to  look  at  the  young 
buds  and  thinking,  surely,  of  her  son,  for  the  excel- 
lent wroman  found  opportunity  to  mix  the  thought 
of  her  son  in  all  her  occupations. 

"  Dear  mother,  continue  to  inspect  the  vines,  your 
son  sends  you  a  tender  remembrance.  He  is  pleased 
with  himself  this  morning ;  be  also  pleased  without 
knowing  why  ;  that  his  deep  delight  surrounds  you 
during  all  this  day  with  an  atmosphere  of  peace; 
this  evening,  upon  retiring,  when  you  think  of  him, 
say  of  him:  *  My  good  Theodore. '  for  he  merits  it." 

Theodore  was  satisfied.  After  a  slight  breakfast, 
he  lay  down  upon  the  lounge  and  thought  satisfiedly 
of  the  pleasure  which  the  little  Madame  d'Aulmoye 
would  experience ;  he  imagined  the  arrival  of  the 
Lieutenant  at  his  home ;  very  sure  that  he  would  be 
unable  to  keep  himself  still  and  the  young  wife 
would  soon  learn  of  the  happening.  The  chasseur 


UN   MYSTEKE.  213 

was  an  honest  fellow  and  Benoist  knew  he  would  do 
him  justice. 

That  thought  made  him  very  comfortable  and  he 
tried  to  draw  enough  consolation  from  it  to  compen- 
sate for  his  being  unable  to  go  to  see  Estelle  that 
day,  or  upon  the  day  following.  "When  should  he 
be  able  to  see  her  ? 

She  was  going  to  Saumeray,  the  next  day,  perhaps, 
and  without  forbidding  him,  she  had  not  asked 
him  to  come  and  see  her.  Besides,  was  it  not,  in 
fact,  impossible?  What  excuse  could  he  have  for 
presenting  himself  at  her  home,  so  far  from  Paris  ? 

Then,  was  he  to  pass  weeks,  perhaps  months, 
without  seeing  her,  without  speaking  to  her,  with- 
out writing  to  her  ? 

At  that  idea,  Benoist  bounded  from  the  sofa  and 
found  himself  standing  before  his  writing-desk.  He 
was  going  to  ask  permission  of  her  to  see  her  once 
again,  and  then  he  would  oblige  her  to  send  him  an 
answer.  After  all,  was  it  not  absurd  that  that 
woman,  so  good,  so  beautiful,  so  worthy  of  all 
regard,  was  condemned  to  isolation  by  the  conven- 
tionality of  a  world  which  put  her  outside  its  laws? 

His  enthusiasm  suddenly  fell,  'the  words  of  his 
brother  came  to  his  mind. 

"I  would  accept  her  as  a  daughter  with  pleasure," 
the  old  lady  had  said,  "  provided  that  you  may  be 
able  to  prove  that  she  has  been  merely  calumnied." 

"Prove,"  and  by  what  means? 

A  sort  of  rage  seized  the  young  man  at  the  idea 
that  Estelle  for  more  than  a  year  had  been  strug- 
gling in  that  net.  Until  then,  absorbed  by  his  own 
sentiments,  he  had  not  thought  of  those  which  the 


214:  TIN   MYSTERE. 

poor  woman  might  experience ;  a  sudden  intuition 
disclosed  to  him  a  long  martyrdom  -which  she  had 
patiently  endured,  the  wounds  which  she  had  borne, 
the  anguish  which  had  torn  her. 

"  And  she  found  means  to  think  of  others,- '  cried 
he,  in  a  loud  voice,  in  the  excess  of  his  emotion. 
"And  she  is  good.  She  excuses,  she  pardons.  Ah, 
chere,  ah  sainte!  And  what  a  wretch  I  am  compared 
with  her." 

He  opened  the  secret  drawer  of  his  writing  desk 
and  took  the  portfolio  in  which  he  kept  the  most 
important  papers.  In  a  separate  pocket  lay  the 
envelope,  he  placed  it  before  him,  he  examined  it 
with  a  sort  of  fear. 

"Why  had  he  kept  it  so  long  ?  What  if  it  were  only 
a  scrap  of  useless  paper,  and  if  so,  why  should  he 
care  for  it?  While  he  looked  at  it,  or  merely 
thought  of  it,  a  procession  of  bloody  pictures  rose 
before  him,  breaking  his  repose.  Possibly,  it  was 
the  true  key  to  the  mystery  ;  in  that  case  Mine,  de 
Beaurand  should  possess  it. 

He  would  send  it  immediately  to  Estelle,  that  same 
day,  and  if  she  could  find  in  it  no  clue  they  would 
destroy  it  together,  and  thus  cease  to  think  of  it. 
Now  he  was  sure,  very  sure,  that  she  would  pardon 
all  doubts,  all  suspicions,  all  that  had  on  account  of 
him,  saddened  her  existence.  And,  even  before  hav- 
ing confessed  his  fault,  he  felt  that  she  had  already 
pardoned  him. 

He  awaited  the  evening  feverishly,  and  about 
nine  o'clock  he  went  to  the  hotel  de  Beaurand, 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

At  the  name  of  Benoist,  Estelle  ordinarily  so 
reserved,  gave  forth  an  exclamation  of  joy  and  arose 
quickly.  The  door  was  closed,  they  were  alone,  she 
took  two  steps  toward  him  and  then  stopped,  her 
hands  clasped  before  her. 

"  Ah,"  she  said  in  a  deep  voice,  "  I  am  pleased  to 
see  you.  I  was  going  to  write  you.  You  are  good, 
you  are  generous.  Yes,  you  are  good." 

He  remained  standing  silently,  fascinated;  she 
came  to  him  and  touched  with  her  delicate  hand  the 
little  band  of  linen  which  bound  the  wrist  of  the 
young  man,  passing  slightly  beyond  his  glove. 

"  You  have  allowed  yourself  to  be  wounded,"  said 
she,  "  for  me.  For  me  first,  and  then  because  1  love 
Odette.  O,  say  nothing,  I  understand  it  all.  I  divined 
it." 

"  But  who  told  you  ? "  Benoist  commenced. 

She  pointed  to  a  lauge  evening  paper,  spread  upon 
the  table. 

"  There,  in  the  latest  news.  Tell  the  truth,  is  it 
for  me  that  you  fought  ?  The  poor  fellow  said  some 
unkind  words." 

Not  knowing  what  to  answer,  Theodore  kept 
silent  without  removing  his  eyes  from  the  beautiful 
face,  animated  with  a  passionate  expression,  more 
beautiful  than  he  had  ever  seen  it  before. 

"Does  he  know  that  it  was  for  me?"  continued 
Estelle. 

"  No,"  said  he,  briefly;  "  I  don't  think  he  does." 

216 


216  tJN   MYSTERE. 

"And  you  were  the  better.  You  could  have 
killed  him.  I  read  between  the  lines,  that  is  enough. 
They  speak  of  your  courteousness." 

Benoist  seized  the  paper  and  read  the  lines  of  the 
latest  news. 

"  It  is  one  of  his  friends,"  said  he,  "  or  himself,  who 
wrote  that.  The  fool." 

"It  is  well  done,  I  am  pleased  with  it." 

Estelle's  eyes  burned  with  an  extraordinary  flame ; 
her  half-opened  lips  smiled,  agitated  by  an  imper- 
ceptible trembling.  Benoist  seized  her  hands. 

"And  I,"  said  he,  "I  am  happy.  Yes,  I  wanted 
to  fight  with  that  ninny,  because  he  spoke  ill  of 
you,  like  the  big  baby  that  he  is ;  yes,  I  defeated 
him  in  order  that  his  wife  might  not  weep,  not  shed 
a  tear.  She  whom  you  love  and  who  loves  you. 
Yes,  I  received  a  scratch  which  doesn't  amount  to 
as  much  as  they  say ;  all  that  is  true.  But  I  did  all 
that  because  I  love  you,  you  understand,  I  love  you, 
and  I  want  you  to  be  my  wife ;  we  should  see  then 
if  any  one  dare  attack  you.  Tell  me,  Mme.  de 
Beaurand,  would  you  be  simply  Mme.  Benoist  ? " 

"  Yes,"  said  she,  looking  at  him  with  a  perfect, 
an  absolute  confidence. 

He  pressed  closer  the  hand  which  he  held,  re- 
mained motionless,  saying  nothing ;  they  looked, 
transported,  into  each  other's  eyes,  and  they  were 
conscious  of  nothing  else  than  their  own  happiness. 
Suddenly  Estelle  disengaged  herself. 

"  Yes,"  she  repeated,  "  but  not  till  the  light  has 
come.  Otherwise,  never.  I  would  enter  your  house 
without  stain." 

He  took  from  his  pocket  the  envelope  and  placed 
it  before  her  upon  the  table. 


UN   MYST^KE.  217 

"What  is  that?"  she  asked,  astonished. 

"It  is  the  envelope  that  contained  the  letter, 
you  know." 

She  looked  from  the  envelope  at  Benoist,  and 
from  him  at  the  envelope,  not  understanding. 

"The  letter  has  disappeared,  the  envelope  re- 
mains. Look  at  it  well,  study  it ;  the  happiness  of 
our  life  is  perhaps  in  that.  Try." 

She  trembled,  seized  by  a  strange  emotion;  he 
brought  a  chair  and  seated  himself  close  to  her, 
within  the  circle  of  light  thrown  by  the  reflector  of 
the  lamp. 

"  Be  not  afraid,"  said  he  to  her,  seeing  that  she 
was  affected ;  "  you  have  been  so  brave  until  now." 

"  It  was  because  until  now  I  was  fighting  for 
myself  alone.  Now  I  am  afraid." 

"  Of  what  ?  " 

"  Of  not  succeeding  in  the  search.  I  am  afraid  to 
look  at  that  paper.  What  if  I  should  see  nothing 
in  it?" 

"  Well,  we  should  search  elsewhere.  Have  cour- 
age; look!  See  in  the  corner  the  post-mark  of 
Laval.  Does  that  say  nothing  to  you  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head  negatively. , 

"  Then  examine  the  writing.  Take  it  easily,  don't 
agitate  yourself,  be  calm." 

She  leaned  over  the  paper  and  looked  at  it 
attentively. 

"  You  do  not  recognize  the  writing  ? " 

After  a  silence  she  repeated  the  same  discouraged 
gesture. 

"  You  have  never  had  in  your  service  any  domes- 
tic, or  any  woman  who  would  wish  you  ill  ?  It  is 


218  UN   MYSTEKE. 

the  hand-writing  of  a  domestic  or  of  a  countryman, 
a  servant  perhaps." 

Estelle  took  the  envelope  in  both  hands  with  a 
kind  of  timidity  and  brought  it  closer  to  her. 

"  A  servant  ?  "  ransacking  her  memory — •"  No. 
At  Mme.  de  Polrey's  I  had  a  maid  who  could  neither 
read  nor  write." 

"That  is  not  a  reason,  and  before  that?" 

"  Before  that  I  was  in  the  convent." 

She  remained  silent,  reviewing  the  course  of  the 
years  gone  by.  All  at  once  she  trembled  from  head 
to  foot.  He  looked  at  her  without  daring  to 
question  her  ;  she  remained  undecided  for  a  moment, 
then  she  rose  and  ran  to  her  writing-desk. 

She  dug  to  the  bottom  of  the  drawer  which  held 
the  old  relics  of  her  childhood,  and  returned  with  a 
petit  paroissien  of  red  morocco,  worn  bare  at  the 
corners.  The  interior  was  filled  with  yellow,  half- 
destroyed  pictures  of  sanctity;  the  lace  paper  which 
surrounded  them  fell  into  dust  as  she  turned  the 
leaves  of  the  book;  she  stopped  over  a  picture 
ornamented  with  a  silver  wafer,  and  removed  it. 

The  picture  represented  a  kneeling  saint,  clothed 
in  a  monastic  costume,  with  her  eyes  raised  toward 
heaven  ;  below,  printed  in  small  capitals,  was  "Saintc 
Rosalie."  Behind  the  deformed  and  uncertain 
writing  were  traced  the  following  words.  "A  sa 
petite  Estelle  Brunaire,  Rosalie  Ferel"  (To  little 
Estelle  Brunaire,  Rosalie  Ferel.) 

"Rosalie,"  said  the  young  woman,  who  had  re- 
covered her  calmness.  "  It  was  Rosalie.  I  would 
have  hesitated  to  believe  it." 

An  expression  of  bitterness  passed  over  the  beauti- 
ful, thoughtful  face. 


UN   MYSTERE.  219 

"Kosalie?"  asked  Benoist. 

"The  waiting-maid  of  my  mother.  I  am  sure, 
absolutely  sure,  it  is  her  v/riting ;  besides,  doubt  is 
not  possible,  look  at  the  odd  form  of  the  B.  I  have 
never  seen  anybody  else  who  made  a  B  in  that 
way." 

Truly,  the  similarity  of  the  B  of  Beaurand  and 
that  of  Brunaire  was  absolute ;  nobody  else  would 
have  been  able  to  make  such  extraordinary  flour- 
ishes as  those  which  formed  that  consonant ;  it  was 
the  work  of  an  inexperienced  person  who  repeated 
thus,  in  this  way,  the  form  of  calligraphy  which  had 
been  taught  her  in  her  childhood. 

"  Rosalie,  lives  then,  at  Laval  ? "  asked  Benoist, 
his  heart  crushed  and  his  respiration  short. 

"  Laval  ?     No,   she  was   at  Vitre,   in   Brittany." 

"  Where  is  Vitre?" 

"  Very  near  Laval.  She  could  have  given  a  letter 
to  some  one  to  post  there ;  I  understand  now ;  but 
why  should  she  have  written  ?  " 

She  remained  perplexed,  her  head  upon  her  hands, 
plunged  in  meditation. 

"  She  never  loved  me,"  said  she,  at  last,  "  she 
never  loved  me.  However,  she  w"as  an  honest  girl, 
incapable  of  slander  or  cowardice;  I  think  so,  at 
least.  It  seems  frightful  and  a  little  foolish.  But  I 
was  so  little." 

"  Do  you  believe  that  she  would  have  calumnied 
you  to  such  an  extent  as  to  cause  this  misfortune  ?  " 

Estelle  reflected  an  instant. 

"  No,"  said  she,  "  she  would  not  have  calumnied 
me,  she  was  strangely  afraid  of  Hell ;  she  feared 
sin  more  than  death.  She  would  not,  voluntarily, 
have  committed  such  a  sin," 


220  UN   MYSTEKE. 

All  at  once;  the  young  woman  remembered  the 
strange  apparition  at  Coutance. 

"  It  was  she,  I  am  sure  now,  it  was  she,  and  she 
recognized  me.  She  had  upon  her  face  an  expression 
which  I  shall  never  forget,  an  expression  of  the 
damned,  who  implore — 

In  a  few  words  she  told  Benoist  of  her  visit  to 
the  cathedral,  and  the  impression  she  had  received 
from  that  country-woman  clothed  in  mourning,  so 
singularly  struck  at  sight  of  her,  so  mysteriously, 
quickly  disappeared. 

"My  friend,"  said  she,  in  closing,  "  it  is  Rosalie 
who  wrote  that  letter.  We  must  find  Rosalie. 
Whether  she  has  calumnied  me  or  net,  it  is  she  who 
is  the  cause  of  the  death  of  M.  de  Beaurand." 

She  was  silent. 

Who  of  us,  struck  by  a  catastrophe,  would  not 
turn  with  infinite  pleasure  to  discovering  the  cause 
of  the  misfortune  which  it  had  heaped  upon  us? 
Estelle  trembled,  in  thinking  that  the  death  of  Ray- 
mond had  brought  so  many  sorrows  into  her  life; 
would  her  misfortune  to-day  become  more  aggra- 
vated, or  would  the  future  become  clear  for  her, 
even  become  splendid  under  a  happy  and  grand 
love? 

"  Since  it  is  thus,"  said  Benoist,  who  had  followed 
upon  the  serious  face  of  the  young  woman  her 
thoughts,  which  were  now  so  clear,  "  and  since  it 
has  appeared  to  be  so  dark,  and  we  ought  to  learn 
it,  we  shall  have  to  find  Rosalie,  at  any  price,  and 
make  her  confess." 

"Would  she  speak?"  asked  Estelle;  "she  is  a 
strange  girl.  It  might  be  that  she  would  refuse 


UN   HYSTERE.  221 

absolutely  to  tell  me  that  which  she  has  confided  to 
the  dead." 

u  In  that  case,  one  would  find  means  to  intimi- 
date her,"  said  Benoist,  thinking  of  Andre  Bolvin. 
It  is  averred  that  a  letter  written  by  her  was  the 
cause  of  the  death  of  M.  de  Beaurand  ;  if  she  re 
fuses  to  inform  us  of  it  of  her  own  free  will,  we 
shall  have  recourse  to  justice." 

"  Justice  ? "  repeated  Estelle.  "  The  noise  would 
awaken  around  that  tomb  a  scandal,  my  name  and 
my  person  would  again  be  raised  to  public  curiosity. 
Ah,  my  friend,  have  I  not  already  suffered  enough  ? 
Spare  me,  I  pray  you,  this  new  bitterness." 

"  However,"  insisted  Benoist,  "  in  order  to  wash 
away  all  calumny,  a  certain  publicity  is  necessary." 

"  We  shall  see,  we  shall  see.  While  waiting,  I 
beg  of  you  guard  the  secret  of  our  success.  We 
will  work  alone,  and  if  anything  horrible  be  re- 
vealed— let  us  be,  if  possible,  alone  in  the  knowl- 
edge of  it.  If  you  only  knew  how  much  I  am 
afraid  of  all  things  at  present !  I  hope  for  but  one 
thing,  and  that  is  that  I  shall  be  no  more  in  their 
minds." 

"  That  will  not  be  difficult,"  sai(J  the  young  man, 
smiling,  "  but  we  shall  see  later.  Then,  you  are 
going  to  Vitre  ? " 

"You  will  come  with  me,"  answered  she,  without 
the  least  embarrassment.  "I  can  not  undertake 
such  a  venture  alone,  and  who  will  aid  me,  if  not 
you  ?  We  shall  leave  to-morrow  morning." 

"  You  desire  it  ?  Have  you  foreseen  the  conse- 
quences ? " 

Estelle  indicated  with  a  sign  of  her  band  that 
she  had  thought  it  all  over. 


222 


UN   MYSTEBE. 


"Then  you  will  go  alone;  I  will  go  this  evening 
in  an  hour.  You  will  iind  me  at  Vitre  to-morrow 
afternoon  ;  I  will  meet  you  at  the  station." 

She  looked  at  him  regretfully ;  certainly  she 
would  have  preferred  not  being  separated  from  him, 
she  was  so  strong  and  assured  in  his  presence.  But 
she  felt  that  he  was  right. 

"  To-morrow,"  said  she,  taking  his  hand. 

"  Bring  the  picture  and  the  envelope,"  the  young 
man  advised  as  he  left. 

She  did  not  close  her  eyes  for  a  minute  during 
that  long  night.  The  morning  of  the  next  day, 
under  pretext  of  going  to  Saumeray,  she  was  taken 
to  the  railway,  and  at  three  o'clock,  upon  the  plat- 
form of  the  station  of  Vitre,  she  perceived  Theo- 
dore, who  awaited  her. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

Independent  of  the  particular  emotion  which  agi- 
tated her,  it  was  a  strange  and  new  feeling  for 
Estelle  to  find  herself  alone  with  a  man,  far  from 
Paris,  far  from  all  with  which  she  was  familiar. 
Her  first  emotion  was,  however,  one  of  pleasure. 
"While  in  the  car,  since  morning,  she  had  felt  so 
heavily  the  weight  of  solitude  that  the  sight  of  her 
friend  gave  her  extreme  pleasure. 

He  took  her  immediately  to  the  little  hotel,  old 
and  odd,  but  of  a  scrupulous  cleanliness,  situated 
opposite  the  station,  and  they  went  to  the  second 
floor  by  an  obscure  stairway.  She  entered  the  clear 
and  joyous  room,  into  which  he  followed  her. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  he  to  her,  "for  not 
being  able  to  offer  you  a  salon.  There  are  none  in 
Yitre  where  I  could  receive  you." 

She  smiled  without  embarrassment ;  the  beautiful 
room  of  the  inn,  with  its  armoire  d  glace  and  its 
round  table  of  mahogany,  did  not  seem  to  her  in  the 
least  to  resemble  a  bed-chamber;  the  bed  itself, 
high  and  massive,  was  draped  with  blue  India  cal- 
ico, with  flowered  designs  which  brought  to  her  im- 
mediately an  idea  of  a  monument  such  as  she  had 
never  before  known. 

She  seated  herself  in  the  only  arm  chair  in  the 
room,  and  he  drew  a  straw  chair  in  front  of  her,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  table. 

"  Arriving  this  morning  at  a  very  early  hour," 
said  he,  "  I  have  already  spoken  to  the  authorities, 
and  I  fear  that  Rosalie  is  not  at  Yitre." 


224  UN    MYSTERE. 

The  animation  in  the  features  of  Estelle  disap- 
peared, and  was  replaced  by  a  pallor  which  scared 
Benoist. 

"  But  we  shall  be  able,  at  least,  to  get  track  of 
her,"  he  hastened  to  add.  "  She  has  lived  here,  they 
told  me ;  but  I  have  not  had  enough  time  to  find  out 
when  she  left,  if  so  much  as  that  she  is  not  here." 

"  It  is  something  to  be  certain  of  that,"  said 
Estelle,  recovering  courage. 

"  Well,  if  you  wish,  we  will  go  to  a  house  which 
they  have  pointed  out  to  me,  where  there  is  a  woman 
who  knows  her,  and  who  is  even  a  relation  of  her, 
I  believe." 

"  Immediately,"  answered  the  young  woman, 
rising. 

They  went  together  down  the  hilly  streets  of  the 
little,  aged  town,  which  was  so  pretty  with  its 
antique  houses  under  the  porches  upon  the  side  of 
the  street.  At  the  windows  early  geraniums,  rose 
bushes  laden  with  flowers,  served  as  curtains  to 
guarantee  against  curiosity  the  women  who  were 
seated  with  their  work  in  their  hands,  as  one  sees 
them  in  the  old  Dutch  pictures. 

Estelle  looked  to  the  right  and  to  the  left  into  the 
houses,  trying  to  find  the  features  of  Rosalie,  who, 
during  the  night  which  she  had  passed  without 
sleep,  had  been  urged  upon  her  memory  with  a  sur- 
prising distinctness.  From  time  to  time  a  face 
attracted  her  attention,  causing  her  to  stop  quickly; 
the  placid  face  of  a  Bretonne  would  then  turn  toward 
her,  questioning  with  curiosity  the  face  and  the  cos- 
tume of  the  pretty  Parisienne,  who  would  pass, 
bowing  her  head  slightly,  as  though,  intimidated. 


UN  MYSTERE.  225 

Thus  they  arrived  at  the  church  of  Notre  Dame, 
with  its  elegant  exterior  pulpit,  then  they  turned  the 
corner  and  entered  a  narrow  court,  with  a  moss- 
covered  pavement.  Theodore  opened  a  door  and 
Estelle  found  herself  in  a  large  and  high  hall, 
superb  remains  of  the  Renaissance. 

The  rosy  flesh  of  newly  killed  pigs  hung  near  the 
window,  looking  delicious;  under  the  mantel  of  the 
fireplace,  which  was  as  elegantly  carved  as  a  jewel 
of  a  goldsmith,  but  the  delicate  details  of  which  were 
covered  by  numerous  coats  of  dirt  and  smoke,  an 
old  lady  was  seated  upon  a  stool,  trying  to  warm 
her  bony  and  wrinkled  hands  with  the  imaginary 
heat  of  some  chilled  coals.  Upon  seeing  this  man  of 
state! v  height  and  that  elegant  woman  cross  the 

«/  O  O 

threshold,  she  fixed  upon  them  eyes  that  were  almost 
blinded  and  of  a  pale  green  color.  Estelle  thought 
of  the  Fates  who  held  in  their  hands  the  destiny  of 
mankind. 

"  Pardon  me,  Madame,"  said  she,  understanding 
that  her  voice  would  be  less  disqueting  to  the  old 
woman  than  that  of  her  companion,  "are  you 
not  related  to  Rosalie  Ferel?" 

The  okl  woman  moved  her  weak'  eyes  from  one  to 
the  other,  and  at  last  rested  them  upon  Estelle,  but 
<li<l  not  answer.  A  pork-dealer,  a  large  man,  came 
from  the  next  room  and  answered  the  question. 

"  Rosalie  was  the  waiting-maid  at  my  mother's 
house,"  said  Estelle,  not  without  slight  embarrass- 
ment ;  habituated  to  act  in  all  frankness,  she  suffered 
upon  trying  to  hide  a  part  of  the  truth.  "I  would 
like  to  see  her;  I  have  something  to  say  to  her." 

"  Rosalie  was  waiting-maid  with  Mme.  Brunaire," 


UN  MYSTERE. 

caid  the  old  woman,  immediately,  who  seemed  not 
to  have  understood  or  heard.  "  Mme.  Brunaire," 
she  repeated,  with  emphasis. 

"  She  was  my  mother,"  replied  Mme.  de  Beaurand, 
softly  ;  "  she  has  been  dead 

"  O  !  a  long  time,"  said  the  good  woman,  decis- 
ively, without  removing  her  eyes.  "It  isn't  for  her 
that  you  are  wearing  mourning  ?  " 

"  It  is  for  my  aunt,"  said  Estelle,  who  did  not  dare 
to  look  at  Benoist.  She  felt  that,  accompanied  by  a 
man,  it  would  be  impossible  for  her  to  declare  her- 
self a  widow. 

Happily  the  old  Fate  did  not  disturb  herself  about 
that,  taking  them  for  husband  and  wife. 

"You  are  the  little  Brunaire,"  said  she,  still 
motionless.  "  But  then  what  do  you  want  of  .Rosa- 
lie?" 

"  Say  it  is  to  give  her  some  money,"  murmured 
Benoist,  in  English  in  the  ear  of  his  companion. 

She  threw  a  look  of  distress  at  him;  he  under- 
stood that  she  could  not  forge  a  story  and  main- 
tain it. 

"  Madame,"  said  he,  "  is  of  age  and  in  possession 
of  her  fortune.  She  would  like  to  do  something  for 
the  old  waiting-maid  of  her  mother." 

"  Ah,"  said  the  old  woman,  whose  eyes  left  Estelle 
and  fixed  themselves  upon  the  young  man. 

"  And  for  that,"  he  continued,  "  we  would  like  to 
know  where  Eosalie  lives.  Did  she  not  live  in 
Vitr6?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  large  man,  "  but  it  is  five 
years  since  she  went  away." 

Estelle  and  Benoist  exchanged  a  look. 


UN   MYSTERE.  227 

"  Has  she  gone  to  Laval,"  asked  the  young  woman, 
quickly. 

The  man  threw  a  look  of  astonishment  at  her. 

"Laval;  no,  why?  I  don't  believe  that  during  her 
life,  she  ever  put  her  foot  in  Laval." 

Estelle  felt  her  heart  fail  her.  Theodore  went  to 
her  and  slightly  grazed  her  dress  to  make  her  under- 
stand that  he  was  there  and  that  she  should  not 
lose  courage. 

"  But  you  go  there,  do  you  not  ? "  said  she  to  the 
man,  smiling. 

The  pork-dealer  laughed  aloud. 

"  I,"  said  he,  "  I  go  there  to  buy  my  hogs  when 
there  is  a  fair.  Yes,  surely,  I  go  there." 

"  There  was  a  fair  there  but  a  short  time  ago.  Did 
these  pigs  come  from  Laval  ?  " 

"No,  Monsieur,  I  bought  these  here,"  said  the 
man,  flattered  to  find  a  Parisian  interested  in  his 
business.  "  I  sold  those  from  Laval  last  week.  The 
fair  is  held  upon  the  first  Monday  of  the  month." 

The  light  came  quickly  to  Estelle's  eyes,  she  was 
married  upon  Tuesday,  and  then  the  letter  must 
have  been  put  into  the  post  at  Laval,  upon  Monday, 
by  the  pork-dealer. 

"  Did  she  remain  here  long  last  year,"  asked  she, 
entering  into  the  spirit  of  the  examination. 

"Indeed,  no,"  replied  the  large  man,  willingly, 
"  she  came  upon  the  last  day  of  April  to  stay  a  little 
while,  and  then  I  clo  not  know  where  she  went,  she 
went  away  at  the  end  of  a  we@k  just  as  I  returned 
from  the  fair." 

*•  You  put  her  letter  in  the  post  ?"  said  Benoist, 
affected,  notwithstanding  himself.  "  YOU  Ijave  ngt; 
forgotten?  '> 


228  UN   HYSTERE. 

"  Surely  I  have  not  forgotten." 

"  Do  you  know  to  whom  it  was  addressed?"  con- 
tinued the  young  man,  whose  throat  was  dry  from 
emotion. 

"  Well — no,  Monsieur,  since  I  can  neither  read  nor 
write." 

Benoist  took  a  long  breath. 

In  order  to  shelter  herself  from  the  eyes  of  the 
old  lady,  Estelle  went  to  the  mantel-piece,  which  she 
feigned  to  examine  with  much  attention. 

"  It  is  a  beautiful  mantel,"  said  the  pork-dealer, 
"  and  a  great  many  people  come  to  see  it." 

Estelle,  in  order  to  recover  herself,  followed  with 
her  fingers,  the  elegant  sinuosities  of  a  stone  arabes- 
que; her  heart  beat  so  loud  for  a  few  moments  that 
she  was  afraid  that  she  would  be  unable  to  hear  any- 
thing. 

"  Rosalie  was  born  in  this  house,  was  shenot?'> 
asked  Benoist. 

"  No  Monsieur,  it  was  not  here,  since  her  mother 
came  here  when  she  was  still  very  young." 

"Where  did  she  come  from  ?  " 

"  From  Mont-Saint-Michel,  Monsieur." 

"  I  thought  she  was  always  going  to  live  here," 
said  Estelle,  almost  shivering. 

"  She  returned  after  the  death  of  her  mistress,  but 
she  is  worried.  I  do  not  know  about  what  and  she 
went  away. 

"Where?"  asked  Benoist,  who  believed  that  the 
visible  emotion  of  his  companion  would  inspire  sus- 
picion in  the  old  woman. 

"For  many  places,  Monsieur,  if  Madame  will 
remember,  she  was  an  odd  girl, with  an  extraordinary 


UN   MYSTERE.  229 

character.  She  had  an  idea  of  making  pilgrimages 
and  I  imagine  that  she  has  gone  to  visit  several  of 
the  churches." 

"But  now,  where  do  you  think  she  could  be  found? 
We  would  like  to  give  her  that  which  belongs  to  her 
without  waiting  for  her.  " 

"  This  is  no  affair  of  mine, "  said  the  pork-dealer, 
with  embarrassment.  "  Say,  mother,  do  you  know  ?" 

The  Fate  extended  her  arms  toward  Estelle,  who 
leaned  against  the  mantel-piece,  almost  fainting. 

"  Then  it  is  true  that  you  are  the  little  Brunaire  ?" 
said  she,  fixing  upon  the  young  woman  her  dead 
eyes,  full  of  the  deep  suspicion  of  a  country  woman. 

"  It  is  true  ? "  said  Estelle,  with  the  accent  of  one 
who  is  sincere. 

"  Swear  to  it,  "  insisted  the  old  woman,  in  a  sharp 
tone  "In  the  name  of  the  Father,  Son  and  Holy 
Ghost. " 

"I  swear,"  said  Estelle,  repeating  the  formula. 

The  Fate  made  a  sign  and  fixed  upon  her  a  look 
which  pierced  her  like  an  arrow,  a  look  which  seemed 
fantastic  in  her  dull  eyes. 

"  Show  her  the  picture, "  said  Benoist  softly. 

The  young  woman  sought  in  .the  little  morocco 
sack,  from  which  she  had  not  been  separated,  since 
the  evening  before,  and  drew  from  it  the  missal. 
She  opened  it  and  gave  to  the  good  woman,  the 
picture  of  Saint  Rosalie,  saying : 

"  She  wrote  my  name  here,  herself. " 

The  old  woman  and  her  son  examined  the  picture 
with  evident  respect,  turning  it  over  and  over  in  their 
awkward  but  kindly  hands.  At  last  the  pork-dealer 
gave  it  to  Estelle. 


230  UN    MYSTEEE. 

"  We  cannot  read, "  said  he,  "  but  very  surely  it  is 
Rosalie,  since  you  say  so.  That  is  enough.  " 

The  old  woman  was  mollified. 

"  If  it  was  only  to  trouble  Rosalie,  you  see,  "  said 
she,  "  I  would  not  let  you  know  where  she  is.  She 
is  a  little  feeble-minded,  but  she  is  not  bad.  Rosalie 
ought  to  be  at  Mont-Saint-Michel,  in  the  old  house 
of  her  grandmother,  which  she  inherited  a  short  time 
ago.  You  might  write  to  her.  It  is  immediately 
in  front  of  the  parish  church.  Saint-Michel  is  a  long 
ways  from  here. " 

Benoist  took  the  liberty  of  taking  Estelle's  arm  and 
passing  it  through  his  own,  for  he  was  afraid  she 
would  fall. 

"We  thank  you  very  much,  Madame  and  Mon- 
sieur, "  said  he.  "  We  hope  you  will  excuse  us  and 
we  wish  you  both  good  afternoon. " 

The  pork-dealer,  slightly  astonished  at  seeing  the 
conversation  terminated  so  abruptly,  conducted  them 
to  the  street  and  followed  them  with  his  eyes  to  the 
first  corner. 

When  they  were  out  of  sight,  Theodore  looked  at 
Estelle,  who  allowed  herself  to  be  led  like  a  child. 

•'You  are  trembling  violently,"  said  he  to  her, 
with  an  extreme  kindness,  "  but  we  must  go  on  for 
they  are  looking  at  us." 

She  went  silently  to  the  hotel,  which  happily  was 
not  far  distant,  and  there  in  the  blue  room  she  let 
herself  fall  into  the  arm  chair,  completely  exhausted. 

"  You  have  need  of  rest, "  said  he,  making  a  move' 
ment  to  leave  her. 

She  looked  at  him  with  supreme  energy. 

will  leave  for  JMont-Saint-Michel, "  said  she. 


TIN  MYST£RE.  231 

"at  this  same  instant,  if  there  is  a  train,  that  they 
may  not  have  time  to  warn  Rosalia  so  she  may  escape. 
I  am  sure  now  that  she  has  done  something  horrible, 
and  I  can  not  sleep  until  I  have  found  it  out.  " 

"  So  be  it,"  said  Benoist,  simply,  as  he  went  out  to 
prepare  for  their  departure. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

In  the  twilight  the  train  carried  Estelle  and  her 
friend  alone  in  their  apartment  of  the  first  class; 
alone,  really  alone  for  the  first  time,  since  they  knew 
of  their  reciprocated  love. 

They  were  seated  ms-d-ms;  the  young  woman 
leaned  her  head  back  against  the  cushions  trying  to 
sleep  ;  at  the  end  of  a  few  moments  she  opened  her 
eyes  and  met  the  eyes  of  Theodore  fixed  upon  her 
with  a  tenderness  which  touched  her  heart. 

She  tried  to  speak  to  him  but  the  sound  of  the  mov- 
ing train  hindered  his  hearing ;  moving,  he  seated 
himself  near  her  and  both  silently  looked  from  the 
open  window  upon  the  Breton  landscape  and  upon  the 
woods  and  the  sheep  covered  landes,  feebly  lighted 
by  a  narrow  ray  from  the  moon  which  glanced 
before  them. 

Tiie  air  had  the  softness  and  the  penetrating 
charm  of  spring;  the  furz  and  genista  in  flower 
shone  like  great  masses  on  pale  gold  in  the  dim 
light ;  the  little  hidden  banks  under  the  weeping 
willows  gave  forth  a  delicate  fog  lightly  floating 
over  the  bare  branches  ;  the  earth  seemed  bashfully 
happy,  like  a  young  bride  still  enveloped  in  her 
nuptial  veil. 

Estelle  felt  even  the  same.  Her  soul  came  out 
from  a  dark  winter,  since  now,  she  was  loved,  she 
loved,  nobody  could  divest  her  of  that  with  which 
she  was  blessed. 

Rocked  by  the  movement  of  the  train,  she  felt 

232 


tJN  MYSTERE.  233 

herself  carried  toward  a  goal  which  was  not  Mont- 
Saint-Michel,  but  which  was  love ;  and  of  that  she 
had  no  fear.  Her  marriage  might  be  many  months 
distant,  of  that  she  cared  not,  because  she  felt  hei\ 
self  cherished  and  protected,  notwithstanding.  The 
troubles  of  the  past  had  given  place  to  a  serenity 
which  the  nearness  of  a  possible  frightful  discovery 
could  not  darken. 

Benoist  confusedly  divined  her  thoughts  and 
dared  not  trouble  them.  He  felt  they  were  so  high 
and  holy.  From  time  to  time  they  exchanged  a 
look  with  a  sort  of  half  smile  and  fell  back  into 
their  reveries.  At  a  station  where  the  train  stopped 
for  p,  few  minutes,  a  breath  of  fresh  air  entered  the 
car,  making  Estelle's  hair  wave  and  the  intoxicat- 
ing song  of  a  nightingale  lost  itself  in  space  like  the 
appeal  of  a  loving  soul. 

Estelle  straightened  up,  sighed  and  looked  out 
from  the  train.  The  car  started  slowly,  some  affect- 
ing notes  still  came  to  her  ears,  then  she  could  hear 
nothing  but  the  regular,  "oiling  saccade  of  the  car 
over  the  rails.  She  lookod  at  Benoist,  quickly, 
Benoist  held  his  hands  to  her  and  she  gave  hers  to 
him  with  trouble  mixed  with  felicity. 

"  You  will  bo  mine  Estelle  ?"  said  he  lowly,  but  she 
heard  it,  however.  "  I  have  suffered  much  for  you, 
more  than  you  have  suffered  for  me,  for  I  hated  you, 
and  you  were  too  good  to  hate.  I  hated  you,  I 
believe,  from  the  day  of  your  marriage.  .  .  "While 
Raymond  was  speaking  to  me  of  you,  that  day  I  felt 
a  sort  of  envy,  believing  him  blinded  by  his  love. 
At  the  moment,  doing  violence  to  my  real  sentiment, 
I  said  to  myself,  it  would  be  terrible  if  these  two 


234  UN   MYSTERR, 

charming  souls  should  not  be  happy  with  each  other, 
but  soon  a  bad  thought  came  to  me:  I  did  not  think 
that  you  would  be  happy.  When  I  saw  Raymond 
dead,  lying  prone,  I  hardly  dare  tell  you.  I  do 
not  know,  but  my  sadness  was  mixed  with  a  sort  of 

relief .     Yes,  Estelle,  I  had  thought,  not  at  that 

moment,  but  a  few  minutes  after,  that  you  never 
were  his ;  and  I  am  persuaded  that  it  was  an  instinct- 
ive aversion  which  guided  me.  I  wished  ill  to  you, 

I  had  in  myself  voluntarily  calumnied  you . 

You  smile  instead  of  casting  me  off,  you  understand 
that  in  hating  you,  I  loved  you?" 

She  looked  at  him,  her  eyes  sparkling  with  tears, 
and  outside  the  Breton  landscape  continued  to  roll 
by — without  too  much  haste,  for  the  little  lines  were 
not  distinctly  drawn :  the  heavens  were  soft  and 
clear,  of  a  light  gray  peculiar  to  countries  near  the 
sea.  He  continued  : 

"  To  love  you,  that  idea  could  not  come  to  me.  It 
was  pure  folly.  I  affirm  to  you  that  I  never  thought 
of  it,  but  as  I  hated  you,  it  was  necessary  to  explain 
why  the  thought  of  you  never  left  me  for  one  min- 
ute. I  persuaded  myself  that  my  affection  for  Ray- 
mond made  it  my  duty  to  follow  you;  I  found  a 
mean  delight  in  it — a  wicked  pleasure  which  you 
cannot  imagine." 

She  listened  to  him,  half  smiling,  with  a  depth 
of  confidence  impossible  to  describe ;  that,  since  he 
loved  her,  he  should  thus  show  her  his  naked  soul. 

"Do  you  know  how  I  came  to  know  I  loved 
you?"  continued  he.  "It  was  my  mother  who  told 
me.  You  will  love  my  mother,  Estelle ;  you  never 
had  a  better  friend.  Since  the  day  I  told  her  of  my 


UN   MYSTERE.  235 

suspicion,  she  has  not  ceased  to  defend  you.  That 
envelope — how  many  regrets,  how  much  remorse  it 
has  brought  me — she  said  that  I  should  give  it  to 
you,  immediately.  If  I  had  listened  to  her,  I  might 
possibly  have  spared  you  many  sorrows ;  but  I  felt 
vaguely  that  if  I  should  give  it  to  you  I  should  then 
have  no  pretext  for  following  you,  for  thinking  of 
you  all  the  time.  I  was  blind,  I  was  deaf,  I  was  a 
fool,  I  hated  you  and  I  adored  you,  Estelle." 

"  My  friend,"  said  she  allowing  him  to  raise  to  his 
lips  the  hands  which  she  had  placed  in  his. 

She  withdrew  them  softly,  the  lamp  in  the  car  had 
just  gone  out  and  the  half  obscurity  revealed  the 
modesty  of  the  young  woman ;  he  followed  her  eyes 
to  the  west  where  there  still  remained  pale  reflection 
in  the  sky. 

"The  day  which  will  break  to-morrow,"  said  he, 
"  may  bring  you  care  for  all  your  life ;  it  may  mix 
you  in  a  fault,  in  a  crime ;  you  may  never  find  your- 
self such  as  you  are  at  this  moment :  it  will  leave 
upon  you  an  ineffacable  stamp.  Before  that  time 
I  wish  to  say  to  you  as  I  will  repeat  to  you  here- 
after, whatever  comes,  I  love  you,  I  have  confidence 
and  you  shall  be  my  wife." 

"Ah,"  cried  Estelle,  suddenly  overcome  with 
anguish,  "  why  did  Raymond  abandon  me ;  what 
could  have  been  his  sorrow,  crime  or  shame?  He 
ought  to  have7  lived  to  protect  me,  to  defend  me. 
Dead,  as  he  is,  I  can  not  pardon  him,  leaving  upon 
me  the  responsibility  of  his  act,  he  has  deserted  his 
colors.  I  know  what  you  were  going  to  say.  Do  not 
say  it  will  release  that  man  from  his  crime  toward 
me,  who  married  him  without  love  and  only  that  he 
might  be  happy." 


236  UN    MYSTERE. 

"  He  is  dead,"  said  Benoist,  softly. 

She  inclined  her  head  upon  her  breast,  closed  her 
•  eyes  and  remained  silent.  lie  understood  that  she 
was  praying. 

The  train  slackened  its  speed ;  a  more  lively  air 
bore  to  them  the  perfume  of  the  sea;  outside  the 
heavens  were  studded  with  stars.  Estelle  opened 
her  eyes. 

"  My  dear,"  said  he  to  her,  "  what  can  be  our  future 
destiny?  The  day  which  is  ended  has  bound  us 
together  indissolubly  ;  from  this  hour  before  God 
and  before  our  consciences,  we  are  married." 

"  Then  so  be  it,"  said  she  gravely. 

The  train  stopped,  they  descended  upon  the  plat- 
form, deserted  at  that  late  hour;  notwithstanding 
the  efforts  of  the  hotel  keepers  to  keep  him,  Benoist 
engaged  a  driver,  half  asleep,  and  a  rickety  carriole. 
A  quarter  of  an  hour  afterward,  they  were  rolling 
over  the  sand  toward  Mont-Saint-Michel.  Resting 
against  each  other,  in  a  calm  happiness  which 
destroyed  all  apprehensions,  they  went  in  the  night, 
the  clear  night  of  the  last  days  of  May,  balmy  and 
pure  as  the  respiration  of  a  new  born  child  ;  a  soft 
zephyr  whispered  and  sighed  through  the  old  fences 
of  the  fields  disputed  by  the  sea;  the  tufts  of 
heather  and  of  tamarind,  grew  here  and  there  in 
the  desert  pastures.  This  landscape,  saddened  in  the 
day  time,  took  under  the  clearness  of  the  number- 
less stars  a  soft,  yet  powerful  charm. 

The  milky- way  extended  toward  the  southeast  like 
a  luminous  cataract  Jailing  from  the  heavens  into 
a  bottomless  gulf  behind  the  earth :  it  seemed  so 
near  that  one  could  almost  catch  it  in  the  hand;  but 


UN   MYSTERE.  237 

the  profound  azure  seemed  deep  between,  the  con- 
stellations. All  at  once,  upon  her  left  Estelle  saw 
the  mast  and  cordage  of  a  boat  drawn  in  black. 

"We  are  very  near,"  said  Benoist  to  her  in  a  low 
voice. 

Since  leaving  Pontorson,  they  had  not  exchanged 
a  word.  Their  driver  quickened  the  pace  of  his 
little  horse  with  his  voice  and  his  whip.  They 
turned  an  angle  and  space  opened  before  them. 

"  Look,"  said  Benoist. 

The  silhouette  of  Mont-Saint-Michel  was  drawn 
against  the  sky  with  a  powerful  distinctness,  not- 
withstanding the  night.  It  was  a  time  of  the  high 
tide,  of  tranquil  waters,  without  a  ripple,  flooding 
the  old  sea  walls  and  reflecting  the  stars  of  silver 
from  the  zenith  in  gold  upon  the  darker  sea.  The 
shoes  of  the  horse  clicked  upon  the  stones  of  the 
road  and  almost  before  they  had  time  to  know  it,  the 
massive  portal  of  the  fortress  opened  before  them. 

Notwithstanding  the  advanced  hour,  they  found  a 
lodging  house ;  a  quarter  of  an  hour  afterward  they 
were  in  a  house  situated  near  the  fortress;  upon 
separating  for  the  night,  they  silently  pressed  each 
others  hands. 

Estelle  opened  her  window  and  looked  out.  The 
land  formed  a  black  band  at  some  distance ;  one 
could  see  toward  the  north  a  line  of  little  hills ; 
nearer,  the  sea,  scintilated  with  stars. 

At  the  end  of  a  minute  or  two,  the  young  woman 
perceived  that  the  tide  was  running  out  very  fast. 
One  after  another  the  stars  disappeared,  replaced  by 
a  gray,  dull  beach ;  here  and  there  a  little  pond  still 
retained  the  reflection  of  a  star;  but  it  would  sud- 


238  UN   MYSTEBE. 

denly  vanish.     A  soft  sound,  like  a  smothered  sigh, 
announced  the  movement  of  the  mysterious  water. 

«/ 

Above  the  head  of  Estelle,  the  hushed  voice  of 
her  friend  could  be  heard;  his  room  was  in  the 
upper  story. 

"  The  sea-stars  are  going  out,"  said  he,  in  a  low 
voice,  in  the  great  silence  of  that  memorable  night; 
"  one  after  the  other,  like  tired  travelers  who  wish  to 
sleep.  Thus  your  sorrows,  thus  your  troubles.  And 
above,  the  real  stars  remain  in  their  impassive 
serenite,  like  immortal  love.  Sleep  Estelle,  without 
fear." 

"  Thanks,"  said  she,  in  a  voice  almost  like  a  sigh. 

She  closed  her  window  and  slept  a  peaceful 
sleep. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

The  bells  awakened  Estelle,  who  ran  to  the  win- 
dow. The  gladness  of  the  daylight  laughed  outside; 
the  birds  sang  in  the  trees ;  the  gardens  upon  the 
edge  of  the  ramparts  cast  their  perfume  upon  the 
air ;  the  sea-gulls  careened  around  the  old  hill  with 
triumphal  cries.  She  dressed  very  quickly. 

The  servant  came  up  to  her  room  with  a  server, 
upon  which  were  coffee  and  milk,  which  she  placed 
in  a  neighboring  unoccupied  room,  of  which  the 
young  woman  might  make  a  salon. 

"  I  will  tell  Monsieur,  }rour  brother,  that  he  ma^ 
descend  for  breakfast." 

Estelle  smiled,  surely,  Benoist  not  being  her  hus- 
band, must  be  her  brother.  That  thought,  which 
rendered  homage  to  her  purity,  had  the  effect  of  a 
delicate  compliment  offered  her  by  innocent  hands. 

Benoist  descended ,  he  also  had  slept  well,  and  his 
mind  possessed  all  the  clearness,  all  the  resolution 
necessary  to  carry  on  the  hazardous  work  which  he 
was  about  to  undertake.  In  a, few  words  he  ex- 
plained his  plan  of  campaign. 

"Let  me  have  the  envelope,"  said  he  ;  "if  Rosalie 
is  not  disposed  to  admit  it,  I  shall  be  better  able  to 
frighten  her  than  you.  If  there  should  be  any 
distressing  thing  in  it,  I  may  then  soften  the  bitter- 
ness. At  least,  if  you  would  not— 

"  I  would  not  have  a  secret  in  which  you  could 
not  participate,"  said  Estelle,  firmly.  "Act  as 
seems  best  to  you,  I  will  await  you  here." 

239 


240  UN  MYSTERE. 

He  went  out.  At  that  morning  hour,  the  old,  low 
houses  which  lined  the  single  Eue  du  Mont,  had 
almost  all  upon  their  thresholds  two  or  three  white- 
headed  children,  chubby  and  dirty  faced,  who  ate 
with  gusto,  the  long  berry-covered  pieces  of  bread, 
and  looked  upon  the  gentleman  with  satisfaction. 
Near  the  little  parish  church  he  stopped  in  indecision  ; 
only  one  house,  similar  to  the  others,  had  no  children 
upon  the  steps,  neither  at  the  windows,  closed  from 
eave  to  foundation ;  it  seemed  uninhabited. 

"  Rosalie  Ferel  ? "  asked  he  of  a  neighbor  who  was 
throwing  grain  to  some  chickens. 

"  It  is  there,"  said  she,  pointing  to  the  darkened 
house ;  "  but  she  is  at  mass,  which  will  very  soon  be 
over." 

He  thanked  her  and  waited,  in  the  midst  of  the 
general  indifference  of  a  population,  surfeited  with 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  strangers.  At  the  end  of  ten 
minutes,  the  women  commenced  to  come  from  the 
church,  singly ;  Benoist  looked  at  them  with  atten- 
tion, sure,  from  the  description,  he  would  know 
Rosalie. 

She  appeared  with  her  head  covered  with  a  black 
mantle,  whose  folds  fell  straight  upon  her  drugget 
skirt.  The  old  waiting-maid  had  taken  upon  herself, 
the  costume  of  the  country-women  with  their  slightly 
crude  manners.  She  was  meagre  and  very  pale,  more 
so  than  Benoist  had  expected. 

"  There  is  a  gentleman  there,  who  wished  to  see 
you,  Rosalie,"  said  the  officious  neighbor. 

She  stopped  short,  and  looked  at  the  man  wTho 
saluted  her;  a  slight  color  mounted  to  her  lips  and 
flashed  over  her  forehead ;  only  her  eyes  retained 


UN    MYSTERE. 

their  cold  gray  and  the  expression  of  an  animal  that 
knows  it  is  trapped. 

"  You  wish  to  speak  to  me  ?"  said  she,  in  a  voice 
full  of  anxiet}T. 

"  Yes,  Mademoiselle." 

She  cast  a  look  around  her  as  if  she  wished  to 
escape ;  then,  with  a  gesture  of  hopeless  resignation, 
she  took  her  key  from  her  pocket,  and  without 
letting  her  eyes  rest  on  Benoist,  she  said  to  him : 
"  Come." 

They  entered  the  little  house,  simple,  cold  and 
poor,  but  of  rigorous  cleanliness.  She  closed  the 
door  and  said  to  him:  "  Be  seated." 

They  were  in  a  narrow,  low  room,  lighted  by  a 
window  with  two  little  greenish  panes;  a  table, 
four  chairs  and  a  large  bureau  composed  all  the 
furniture ;  through  an  open  door,  one  could  see  in 
the  next  room,  larger  and  better  furnished,  a  cur- 
tained bed  covered  Avith  violet  India  calico.  Rosalie 
went  into  that  room  and  returned  immediately. 

She  had  taken  off  her  mantle.  Her  angular  face 
was  shaded  under  a  simple  bonnet  of  white  muslin. 
She  wore  over  her  dress  of  black  drugget,  a  violet 
cotonnade  apron  of  deep  color,  a  fichue  of  the 
same  color,  black  printed  with  white,  as  a  sign  of 
mourning. 

Her  face  kept  the  expression  of  a  frightened 
animal,  however,  she  made  great  efforts  to  make 
herself  appear  calm.  Her  voice  betrayed  her,  for 
she  tried  several  times  before  succeeding  in  pro- 
nouncing :  "  What  do  you  wish  of  me  ? " 

Benoist  took  from  his  pocket  the  envelope  which 
Estelle  had  given  him  and  without  saying  a  word 


242  TIN   MYSTERE. 

placed  it  upon  the  table.  Rosalie  looked  at  it  as 
though  fascinated,  she  bent  over  to  see  it  better. 
Upon  recognizing  her  own  handwriting,  she  recoiled 
to  the  window  and  supported  herself  as  do  the 
animals  in  their  dens,  looking  at  her  terrible  visitor. 

"You  remember  that's;"  said  Benoist,  himself 
almost  frightened  at  her  attitude. 

She  made  an  affirmative  sign  of  the  head. 

"  You  wrote  it  2  " 

She  continued  to  look  at  him,  but  answered  not. 

"What  was  there  in  the  letter? "  asked  the  young 
man,  in  a  severer  tone. 

"  You  know  very  well,"  said  the  lips,  without  pro. 
nouncing  a  sound. 

"  Tell  me,"  insisted  Benoist. 

"No,"  said  Rosalie,  with,  an  energetic  movement 
of  her  whole  being.  "  It  is  too  much  to  have  written 
it.  I  will  not  tell  it ! " 

"  You  will  have  to,  however/'  said  he.  "  Come 
here!" 

She  remained  motionless;  he  went  to  her,  took 
her  by  the  hand  and  seated  her  without  her  resisting. 
Great  drops  of  perspiration  ran  down  her  cold  face 
upon  the  mourning  handkerchief. 

"  Tell  me  what  was  in  the  letter?  " 

"Never,"  said  she,  crossing  her  arms  over  her 
narrow,  flat  breast. 

"  You  were  the  cause  of  the  death  of  a  man,"  said 
Benoist,  in  a  menacing  tone. 

She  shivered,  her  lips  moved ;  but  she  said  nothing. 

"Monsieur  de  Beaurand  killed  himself,  because  he 
read  your  letter,"  continued  he,  unpityingly,  "It  is 
you  who  killed  him." 


TTN   MYSTEKE.  243 

She  made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  moved  her  lips; 
but  said  nothing. 

"  Mme.  Montclar  died  of  sorrow  a  week  ago, 
because  of  you.  Did  you  know  her  ?  " 

Rosalie  made  a  negative  gesture. 

"  She  was  the  aunt  of  Monsieur  de  Beaurand;  she 
loved  him  as  a  son.  Did  you  know  M.  de  Beau- 
rand?" 

She  repeated  the  same  gesture. 

"  Then  why  did  you  write  that  letter  to  him  ? " 

She  remained  motionless,  her  lips  pressed  tightly 
together. 

"Answer!"  said  he,  with  authority,  "or  we  will 
have  recourse  to  justice." 

"  The  justice  of  men  counts  for  nothing,'5  said 
she  slowly;  "  it  is  the  justice  of  God  only  which  is  of 
value." 

Benoist  looked  at  her  with  a  sort  of  internal  rage. 
Was  he  powerless  to  make  her  speak?  She  was 
careless ;  absorbed  in  her  terror. 

"Do  you  know  what  you  have  done  ?"  said  he 
loudly.  "  It  was  you  who  wrote  the  letter,  it  is  on 
account  of  you  that  Mme.  de  Beaurand  is  dead  and 
it  is  an  innocent  person  who  is  'accused  of  having 
killed  him." 

Rosalie  looked  at  him  and  a  little  color  came  to 
her  lips. 

"  Yes,  they  have  said  that  it  is  his  wife  who  killed 
him.  Behold  what  you  have  done ! " 

The  face  of  the  unfortunate  became  discomposed 
and  she  gave  forth  a  smothered  moan. 

"Estelle?" 

"  Yes,  Estelle.  Have  you  been  so  miserable  ? 
Have  you  no  fear  of  God  1 " 


944:  UN    MYSTERE. 

Rosalie  interrupted  him. 

"  They  say  that  it  is  Estelle  ?  It  is  not  true.  It 
is  I  who  wrote  the  letter.  Estelle  could  not  have 
known." 

"  Then  tell  me  what  you  wrote,  that  the  innocence 
of  Estelle  may  be  proclaimed,"  said  Benoist,  seeing 
that  he  was  gaining  some  ground. 

Rosalie  shook  her  head.  "  It  is  impossible,"  said 
she ;  "  they  can  not  be  told  that ;  they  should  not 
know  the  truth." 

"  For  the  honor  of  Estelle." 

"  Estelle  would  not  wish  it." 

She  relapsed  into  silence,  with  a  despairing  look 
and  tightly  closed  lips.  Fright  had  so  overcome 
her  at  the  first  blow  that  she  had  not  even  dreamed 
of  asking  Benoist  who  he  was  and  by  what  right  he 
questioned  her,  the  sight  of  the  envelope  was  suf- 
ficient to  paralyze  her. 

"  But  Estelle  is  miserable.  Estelle  is  accused  and 
all  on  account  of  you.  Have  you  no  shame  2  " 

"  I  know,  I  saw  her  at  Coutance.  It  seemed  to 
me  that  it  was  my  damnation  that  arose  before 
me." 

"Then  tell  the  truth!" 

"  I  can  not ! " 

Benoist  arose,  resolved  to  use  his  last  argument. 

"  You  are  responsible  before  God  and  before  man." 

She  violently  interrupted  him. 

"  Before  men,  nobody  knows.  Before  God  ?  I 
have  confessed  and  I  have  received  absolution." 

"  Though  he  who  gave  it  you  did  not  know  that 
one  who  was  innocent  was  accused  of  your  crime. 
You  did  not  tell  him  that ;  God  has  not  pardoned 


TJN  MTSTERE.  245 

you.     If  Estelle  would  not  pardon  you,  take  care 
of  Hell,  Kosalie. 

At  that  word,  the  unfortunate  seemed  to  move 
upon  herself. 

Benoist  saw  that  the  word  had  terrified  her. 

"  Bring  peace  to  your  conscience,"  said  he, 
approaching  her;  tell  the  truth.  You  will  not 
tell  it  to  me  ?  Do  you  prefer  to  tell  it  to  Estelle." 

"  Estelle  ought  not  to  know,"  groaned  Kosalie, 
hiding  her  face  covered  with  tears,  with  her  flesh- 
less  hands.  Oh  Heavens!  Have  I  not  suffered 
enough  because  of  the  sins  of  others  ?  Go  away,  I 
do  not  know  you.  You  have  nothing  to  do  here, 
and  as  for  Estelle,  I  can  tell  her  nothing.  I  am 
grieved,  yes,  I  am  grieved  that  she  has  suffered  on 
account  of  that ;  but — go  away." 

"It  is  well,"  said  Benoist  coldly.  "I came  in  a 
spirit  of  peace ;  but  if  you  prefer  to  go  to  prison." 

"  That  is  well,"  said  she,  with  indifference. 

"  And  afterward  to  Hell ;  for  you  it  is  who  killed 
M.  de  Beaurand.  They  can  not  give  you  absolution 
for  such  a  crime.  You  never  told  the  priest  that  he 
killed  himself  after  having  read  your  letter." 

He  had  struck  rightly.  Rosalie  was  completely 
overcome. 

"  You  may  see,"  continued  the  young  man,  tri- 
umphantly. "  You  have  wished  to  deceive  the 
justice  of  God ;  but  you  will  be  punished  for  it." 

"  I  had  not  wished  to  kill  M.  de  Beaurand," 
retorted  Rosalie,  with  vehemence.  "  I  only  hoped  to 
hinder  the  marriage,  and  I  did  my  duty  because  it 
was  right.  If  he  killed  himself  it  was  not  my  fault," 

f<  You  say  that,  but  it  is  not  true.     It  is  a  lie," 


246  UN  MYSTERE. 

"  I  have  never  lied,"  replied  Rosalie,  exasperated. 

"  It  is  an  abominable  lie !  You  can  not  make  me 
believe  it.  You  are  nothing  but  a  liar !  " 

He  had  followed  upon  the  face  of  the  miserable 
one  the  effect  of  each  of  his  words,  which  burned  her 
like  a  red  hot  dart.  At  the  last  word  she  arose. 

''I,  a  liar?  "Well,  wait.  For  to  me,  it  is  all  the 
same ;  wait,  and  leave  me  in  peace." 

She  opened  the  bureau  with  a  singular  vigor. 
From  under  a  pile  of  cloth  she  took  a  yellow  paper, 
and  threw  it  upon  the  table  angrily.  Benoist  took 
it  and  opened  it. 

It  was  the  copy  of  a  letter,  written  upon  very 
cheap  paper,  with  erasures  and  blots.  The  first 
words  were,  "  Monsieur  Raymond  de  Beaurand." 

Andre  Bolvin  would  have  said,  the  letter  had  come 
and  placed  itself  in  the  envelope. 

"  Go  now,"  said  Rosalie ;  "  go." 

Benoist  took  his  hat  and  went  out,  carrying  the 
letter  with  him.  He  staggered  like  a  drunken  man, 
and  knew  not  where  to  go.  Following  a  by-street, 
he  climbed  upon  the  rampart.  There,  in  a  half  light, 
he  found  a  bench  of  stone  and  seated  himself.  Under 
the  blue  sky,  while  the  birds  sang  in  the  branches 
of  a  fig  tree,  upon  the  edge  of  the  high  walls  of 
Merveille,  he  read  the  letter  which  had  caused  the 
death  of  Raymond. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

M.  RAYMOND  DE  BEAURAND. 

Monsieur:  I  have  seen  the  announcement  of  your  marriage  in 
the  papers.  You  should  not  marry  Mile.  Estelle  Brunaire.  I 
was  the  waiting-maid  of  Mme.  Brunaire  during  fourteen  years, 
and  I  know  all  that  passed  during  that  time,  when  the  General  de 
Beaurand  commenced  to  pay  court  to  my  poor  mistress.  When 
the  General  was  dead  Mme.  Brunaire  told  rne  that  it  was  her  hus- 
band who  had  assassinated  him.  You  see,  then,  Monsieur,  that 
you  can  not  marry  Mile.  Estelle,  who  is  your  sister,  by  the  fault 
of  her  mother.  I  write  this  to  let  you  escape  from  a  great  sin 
already  committed;  my  conscience  does  not  permit  me  to  keep 
silence  when  I  can  hinder  this  unhappiness.  You  may  not 
believe  me;  however,  you  should,  for  I  never  have  lied.  Ask 
Mile.  Estelle  if  she  remembers  Rosalie,  and  of  a  fright  which  I 
gave  her  one  evening  at  Saumeray,  when  she  heard  me  call  her  a 
cursed  child,  a  daughter  of  sin,  because  I  was  angry  with  her. 
Ask  of  her,  also,  how  her  mother  was  with  her  always  severe  and 
harsh,  because  she  had  remorse  for  her  sin.  Besides,  if  Mile. 
Estelle  has  continued  as  she  was,  you  have  only  to  look  at  her; 
she  resembled  the  General  like  two  drops  of  water,  while  small 
it  was  striking,  and  I  was  ashamed  when  I  took  her  out  walking, 
so  much  was  I  afraid  that  some  one  would  perceive  the  likeness. 
She  has  the  same  eyes,  the  same  brow  and  the  same  mouth. 
Many  times  I  had  wished  that  she  should  have  the  small-pox  that 
she  might  be  disfigured;  at  least,  that  she  might  not  show  to  the 
world  the  shame  of  her  poor  mother.  I  hope  that  this  letter  will 
arrive  in  time  to  hinder  the  wrong.  Do  not  strive  to  know  me; 
I  would  be  quiet  now  that  I  have  discharged  my  conscience.  I 
pray  always  for  the  soul  of  my  poor  mistress,  who  had  so  much 
sorrow,  and  I  pray  also  that  you  may  be  delivered  from  yours. 
Your  Servant,  ROSALIE  FEREL. 

Benoist  was  motionless,  the  letter  in  his  hand  ;  the 
sunlight  and  the  shadows  played  upon  the  paper 
through  the  leaves  of  the  fig  tree,  moved  by  a  light 
breeze;  two  or  three  children  coming  out  of  the 
neighboring  garden,  looked  at  him  with  curiosity, 

247 


248  UN   MYSTERE. 

and  then  retired,  afraid  of  seeing  him  in  such  a  place 
motionless.  With  eyes  lost  in  the  shadowy  horizon, 
he  sat,  buried  in  thoughts. 

This  then  was  the  secret  of  the  odd  trouble  which 
the  portrait  of  the  General  had  thrown  upon  him. 
Those  black  eyes  which  had  haunted  him  almost  to 
madness,  those  eyes  painted  upon  the  canvas  which 
had  given  him  the  illusion  were  those  of  Estelle, 
proud  and  soft,  but  living.  Rosalie  was  right,  all 
proof  was  useless  before  a  resemblance  so  pro- 
nounced. Benoist  understood  that  his  friend  had 
not  doubted  for  an  instant,  he  who  carried  the  face 
of  his  father  engraven  upon  his  heart,  who  looked 
at  that  portrait  ten  times  a  day,  he  who  loved  pas- 
sionately must  have  looked  deeply  into  the  eyes  of 
his  affianced. 

He  understood  why  Raymond  died  without  ex- 
planation. What  could  he  say  i  To  whom  could 
he  confide  the  horrible  revelation,  and  why  should 
he  do  so?  Loving  Estelle  as  he  did,  he  could  not 
think  that  she,  his  sister,  was  his  wife.  The  presence 
of  the  idea  of  an  eternal  separation  had  made  him 
wish  rather  to  die,  carrying  the  secret  with  him. 

Souvenirs,  almost  effaced,  returned  to  his  mem- 
ory; how  upon  seeing  Mme.  Montclar  near  the 
young  woman,  he  was  astonished  at  finding  in  them 
such  resemblances,  differing  only  in  age  and  in  hair, 
but  alike  in  height,  in  face  and  in  appearance,  with 
the  same  black  eyes  of  which  the  resemblance  to 
him  now  appeared  so  evident  that  he  was  totally 
surprised  at  never  having  thought  of  it  before. 
"  You  are  a  true  Beaurand,"  said  Mme.  Montclar, 
often.  Alas !  Yes,  Estelle  was  a  true  Beaurand. 


UN  MTSTERE.  249 

The  bell  tolled  the  hour.  Benoist  thought  of  his 
friend,  who  awaited  him  with  the  feverish  anxiety 
of  the  condemned.  Should  he  reveal  the  truth  to 
her?  Could  he  hide  it  from  her?  What  would  he 
say  to  her?  Would  she  accept  his  silence,  or  a 
defeat  ? 

He  felt  that  he  could  not  deceive  her,  besides  after 
what  she  had  suffered,  a  new  sorrow  counted  little ; 
certainly  it  would  hurt  her  upon  learning  the  fault 
of  her  mother ;  but  she  understood  well  now  why 
her  mother  cared  nothing  for  her.  And  for  the 
memory  of  Kaymond,  he  had  no  right  to  keep 
silent. 

The  young  man  arose,  and  with  slow  steps  took 
his  way  to  the  little  hotel.  Estelle  had  patiently 
awaited  him,  seated  near  the  window,,  with  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  changing  horizon,  without  knowledge 
of  the  hours  passing.  The  fever  had  left  her,  she 
had  resigned  herself  to  learn  something  horrible 
and  every  minute  which  left  her  in  her  ignorance 
was  still  a  benefit. 

Upon  seeing  her  friend  enter,  she  arose,  he  made 
her  re-seat  herself  with  a  gesture,  friendly  and  pro- 
tectorial,  and  softly  without  a  word  he  put  the  letter 
in  her  hand. 

Frightened,  she  looked  at  him,  the  eyes  of  Benoist 
showed  a  tenderness,  a  pity  unbounded. 

"  Tell  me  what  it  is,"  murmured  she,  I  would  like 
better  that  it  come  from  you." 

"  I  can  not,"  said  he.  "  Eead.  You  may  call  me 
when  you  please." 

Ho  leaned  over  her  and  for  the  first  time,  kissed  her 
white  forehead,  then  went  out  and  seated  himself 
upon  a  step  of  the  stairs. 


250  TIN   MYSTERE. 

She  read,  immediately  blinded  by  tears  that  she 
mechanically  wiped  away,  O  !  poor  Raymond,  what 
must  he  have  suffered  during  those  few  minutes,  the 
last  of  his  life!  She  now  understood  how  her  por- 
trait became  torn  and  thrown  in  the  fire-place,  what 
bitterness,  what  renunciation.  And  also,  in  the 
depth  of  her  soul,  she  now  understood  why  she 
could  not  love  him  as  he  had  wished.  And  she 
blessed  him  for  having  given  by  his  silent  death,  a 
last  proof  of  respect  and  tenderness. 

Time  rolled  by,  Benoist  became  frightened  at  not 
hearing  her  move.  Softly  opening  the  door,  he 
looked  at  her.  She  raised  her  head  and  made  one 
motion.  He  ran  to  her  and  clasped  her  in  his  arms 
that  she  might  weep  at  ease,  from  her  full  heart. 

After  an  instant  of  abandonment,  she  dried  her 
eyes  and  seated  herself  in  a  chair,  he  drew  near  her 
that  he  might  speak  to  her  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Behold,  the  mystery  is  cleared  and  I  almost  regret 
knowing  it.  However,  it  is  a  great  source  of  comfort, 
that  of  having  to  weep" — she  hesitated,  then  con- 
tinued, blushing — "for  Raymond,  instead  of  blaming 
him.  But  my  situation  for  myself  is  only  more 
miserable.  I  am  now  nobody.  I  was  Mile.  Brunaire, 
Monsieur  Brunaire  was  not  my  father.  I  was  Mme. 
de  Beaurand,  M.  de  Beaurand  could  not  have  been 
my  husband.  I  have  right  to  no  name,  I  am  no 
longer  anybody." 

"  You  are  a  Beaurand  whatever  may  happen," 
said  Benoist,  with  a  beautiful  smile  which  warmed 
the  heart  of  Estelle,  "  and  soon  you  will  be  my  wife." 

"  My  friend,"  said  she,  immediately,  "  can  you  un- 
derstand how  I  feel  the  weight  of  these  names 


UN    MYSTERE.  251 

which  are  not  mine,  and  of  the  fortunes  to  which  I 
have  no  right?" 

"  Be  reasonable,  Estelle,"  said  Benoist,  trying  to 
calm  her;  "do  not  exaggerate  these  things." 

"Ah,  you.  can  not  understand  that  which  gives  me 
so  much  horror.  It  is  the  fortune  of  the  man  who 
assassinated  General  de  Beaurand.  You  can  not  say 
that  I  have  right  to  that  at  least.  I  can  keep  neither 
one  nor  the  other.  I  would  that  all  were  already 
finished." 

"Patience,"  said  Benoist,  "you  have  many  things 
to  do,  but  it  will  take  time." 

Some  one  knocked  at  the  door  and  while  Estelle 
was  drying  her  tear-stained  eyes,  he  went  to  open  it. 
The  servant  of  the  inn  brought  to  him  the  good  wo- 
man whom  he  recognized  as  the  neighbor  of  Rosalie. 

After  the  departure  of  Benoist,  Rosalie  became 
dizzy  ;  her  brain,  enfeebled,  by  a  prolonged  mental 
tension,  had  been  very  much  injured  by  the  scene 
which  had  just  taken  place,  and  when  she  wished  to 
rise  she  fell  to  the  floor  unconscious. 

The  neighbor,  curious  like  all  neighbors,  had 
waited  for  some  time  after  the  departure  of  Benoist, 
hoping  to  see  her  leave  the  house  or,  at  least,  open 
the  door,  following  the  usual  Norman  and  Breton 
custom  that  she  might  have  more  light;  but  her 
waiting  was  fruitless.  After  about  an  hour  she  de- 
cided to  knock  at  the  door,  being  unable  to  contain 
herself  longer.  Hearing  no  response  she  went  in 
that  she  might  appease  her  disquietude  and  found 
the  unhappy  one  lying  near  her  chair. 

To  carry  her  to  her  bed  was  not  difficult,  for  her 
emaciated  body  hardly  weighed  more  than  that  of  a 


252  UN    MYSTEKE. 

child.  She  half  undressed  her,  chafed  her  hands,  and 
seeing  that  it  did  no  good,  ran  for  the  apothecary, 
not  without  making  much  noise  over  the  incident. 

"When  Kosalie  opened  her  eyes,  a  half-dozen  of 
gossips  surrounded  her,  each  one  with  her  own 
favorite  remedy.  Notwithstanding  her  feebleness, 
she  sent  them  away,  retaining  only  the  neighbor 
who  put  the  room  in  order  ;  at  the  end  of  a  moment 
she  realized  what  had  happened,  seated  herself  upon 
the  bed  and  drew  the  covers  over  her. 

How  had  she  been  able  to  give  that  letter  to  one 
unknown  to  her.  Who  was  that  man  who  had 
spoken  to  her  of  Raymond  and  of  Estelle?  She 
was  overcome  with  fright,  and  imprudently  she 
allowed  to  escape  the  secret  which  she  had  kept 
so  closely. 

"Listen,"  she  said  to  her  who  watched  her, 
"  you  will  have  to  find  the  man  who  was  here  but  a 
short  time  ago.  You  saw  him,  you  would  know 
him.  Tell  him  to  come  to  talk  with  me  immediately." 

"  I  will,"  answered   the  good  woman,  "  but  where 

does  he  live?" 

"  Find  out,"  said  Eosalie  with  impatience,  "  Mont- 
Saint-Michel  is  not  so  very  large.  One  can  very 
quickly  go  the  rounds." 

Enchanted  with  having  a  part  to  play  in  an  affair 
•which  seemed  to  be  of  an  interesting  nature,  the 
neighbor  started  on  the  rounds  of  the  hotels,  com- 
mencing at  the  nearest  one.  As  she  liked  to  gossip 
very  much,  a  certain  amount  of  time  elapsed  before 
she  had  found  him.  At  last,  by  the  description,  the 
servant  of  the  inn  recognized  Benoist  and  conducted 
Jber  to  him. 


253  UN   MTSTERE 

After  having  listened  to  the  somewhat  diffuse 
story  of  the  officious  person,  Benoist  turned  toward 
Estelle. 

"  Let  us  go,"  said  he ;  "  if  there  is  anything  else 
that  you  wish  to  know,  Rosalie  will  doubtless  tell 
you." 

They  descended  toward  the  little  house ;  for  the 
first  time  Benoist  passed  Estelle's  arm  through  his, 
that  he  might  prevent  her  slipping  upon  the  glassy 
stones ;  she  seemed  very  happ}r  upon  feeling  herself 
thus  protected,  her  saddened  soul  reposing  upon 
him  with  an  exquisite  sweetness.  Her  eyes  and  her 
heart  were  full  of  tears  at  the  thought  of  her  sorrow; 
but  in  the  depths  of  her  heart  she  felt  that  the  future 
would  compensate  for  the  past.  It  was  thus,  that, 
sustained  and  encouraged,  she  crossed  the  threshold 
of  the  cottage  of  her  who  had  caused  the  death  of 
two  beings  whom  she  loved. 


CHAPTEK  XXXIV. 

"  Here  is  the  gentleman  and  the  lady, "  said  the 
neighbor,  opening  the  door. 

Rosalie  opened  her  eyes  and  was  struck  dumb  at 
the  sight  of  Estelle.  She  had  wished  to  arise,  her 
clothing,  which  hardly  closed  over  her,  was  covered 
by  her  black  mantle,  which  hid  her  whole  costume. 
Under  the  rigid  pleats  which  fell  to  the  ground, 
seated  upon  a  straw  chair,  she  looked  like  a  black 
statue  of  sorrow.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the 
young  girl  with  a  frightful  stare. 

"  Rosalie, "  said  Estelle,  moved  at  seeing  in  such  a 
condition  the  only  woman  who  had  well  or  ill  cared 
for  her  in  her  childhood. 

"  Look  at  her,  Monsieur, "  said  Rosalie  to  Benoist, 
pointing  toward  her.  "  Look  at  her.  She  is  the  liv- 
ing portrait  of  her  father.  " 

Benoist  softly  pushed  the  neighbor  aside  who 
went  out  and  closed  the  door. 

"  What  do  you  wish  of  me? "  said  he,  returning. 

<k  I  do  not  know  you  sir, "  said  Rosalie,  "  I  gave 
you  the  letter,  I  was  wrong :  you  must  give  it  back  to 
me." 

Without  saying  anything,  Estelle  took  from  her 
paroiasienne  the  letter  which  she  had  put  in  the  envel- 
ope by  the  side  of  the  picture  and  gave  it  to  her  old 
nurse,  who  took  it  quickly  and  tore  it  into  a  thousand 
pieces. 

"  Now, "  said  she,  "  there  remains  nothing  at  all  of 
the  secret  of  your  family.  I  like  this  better,  I  have 

"354 


UN  MYSTERE.  255 

been  careful  of  the  copy  of  the  letter,  I  know  not 
why.  When  I  was  so  much  tormented  I  re-read  it  in 
order  that  I  might  say  that  I  had  done  well.  Is  it 
my  picture  which  you  have  in  your  book  ?  You  have 
kept  it?  You  have  not  forgotten  me?  Tell  me,  who 
is  the  gentleman  who  is  with  you?" 

"  I  was  the  friend  of  .Raymond, "  said  Benoist,  in  a 
grave  voice,  "I  am  the  fiance  of  Estelle. " 

Rosalie's  eyes  went  from  one  to  the  other. 

"  Then  there  must  be  no  secret  between  you.  It  is 
well,"  sighed  she,  with  a  slight  relief. 

"  Rosalie,"  said  the  young  woman,  "  why  did  you 
write'so  late  ? — sooner,  and  much  unhappiness  might 
have  been  avoided." 

"  It  was  not  my  fault, "  said  the  wretched  one, 
quickly,  re-commencing  with  the  real  beings  that 
combat  which  thirteen  months  before  she  had  raised 
within  herself.  "  It  was  not  my  fault.  I  was  at 
Vitre  at  the  house  of  my  aunt  when  I  found  a  num- 
ber of  the  "Petit  Journal"  which  announced  your 
marriage.  I  only  looked  at  the  date  and  I  wrote 
immediately.  That  marriage  could  not  take  place. 
It  was  an  abominable  sin,  so  I  wrote  immediately  and 
when  my  cousin  went  to  Laval,  I  gave  him  the  letter 
to  post.  I  did  not  wish  that  Monsieur  de  Beaurand 
should  know  where  I  was  and  come  and  annoy  me 
with  questions.  I  wished  only  to  do  my  duty  and 
be  in  peace.  Peace!  Ah!  Siegneur  Dieu!  I  have  had 
no  more  for  a  single  day,  for  a  single  minute.  I  did 
not  know,  as  for  myself,  if  he  had  married  when  he 
received  the  letter.  I  wished  to  hinder  the  marriage. 
Could  I  have  thought  that  the  unfortunate  would 
take  his  own  life? " 


256  UN  MYSTEKE. 

"  How  did  you  get  his  address? "  asked  Benoist. 

Eosalie  looked  at  him  reproachfully. 

"I  had  put  enough  of  those  letters  in  the  box,  for 
General  de  Beaurand.  Ah,  Monsieur,  I  had  my  part 
in  the  sin  at  another  time.  But  I  was  young,  I  did 
not  know,  and  it  was  for  the  love  of  my  poor  mis- 
tress. And  I  think  that  I  have  expiated  it.  And 
then  when  I  read  in  the  paper  three  days  later — you 
will  understand  that  I  bought  one  every  day  after  the 
letter,  in  order  that  I  might  know  what  happened — 
when  I  learned  that  the  poor  man  had  killed  him- 
self, I  thought  I  should  go  insane.  " 

She  made  with  her  thin  arms  a  gesture  of 
despair,  then  let  them  fall,  and  the  folds  of  her 
mantle  fell  over  her  like  the  wings  of  a  bat. 

"  I  immediately  took  this  mourning,  and  I  have 
not  slept  a  night  since  that  moment  that  commenced 
as  soon  as  the  sun  set.  I  said  to  myself,  '  it  is  your 
fault,'  and  then  I  would  answer,  *  it  was,  however, 
necessary  that  he  should  know  it.  I  could  not  allow 
such  an  act  of  sacrilege  to  take  place.'  And  be- 
tween questioning  and  answering  myself  I  felt  the 
fire  in  my  head,  and  I  thought  I  should  die  imme- 
diately; while  I  was  in  that  state  I  was  sure  of  being 
guilty  of  a  mortal  sin,  and  then " 

Her  face  contracted  under  the  horrible  fear  of 
Hell,  which  had  been  the  torture  of  her  life. 

"  I  felt  safe  nowhere  but  in  the  church,  and  there, 
I  felt,  was  safety.  I  made  vows  and  I  made  pilgrim- 
ages. But  they  close  the  churches  at  night,  and 
it  was  at  night  that  it  came  to  torment  me.  And 
then  one  evening  at  Coutances  I  saw  Estelle  in 
mourning  and  that  thrust  a  dagger  in  my  heart. 


UN   MY8TERE.  257 

It  seemed  so  utterly  impossible  that  she  had  married 
her  brother.  I  could  not  comprehend  the  idea. 
When  I  saw  her  in  mourning  I  then  at  least  compre- 
hended that  she  was  a  widow,  though  she  did  not 
know.  That  affected  me  as  I  can  not  describe. 
Have  you  had  much  sorrow  ?  tell  me, "  said  she  sadly 
as  she  looked  at  the  young  woman. 

"  I  loved  Raymond  like  a  brother,"  said  she,  "  I 
have  wept  very  much  for  him." 

"  As  a  brother  ?  "  said  Rosalie,  leaning  toward  her 
with  her  face  transfigured.  "Only  as  a  brother? 
And  he  killed  himself  immediately  upon  returning 
from  the  church  ?  The  good  God  has  had  a  little 
pity  for  me." 

She  closed  her  eyes  that  she  might  taste  a  little 
of  the  internal  gladness  which  transpired  through  her 
emaciated  face.  Estelle  and  Benoist  exchanged  a 
look.  Evidently  Rosalie  was  not  responsible.  The 
peculiar  excitement  had  made  her  alike  insensible  to 
reproaches  and  to  reason. 

"  Rosalie,"  said  the  young  woman,  softly,  striving 
for  a  last  proof,  "  they  have  accused  me  of  a  crime; 
it  was  your  imprudence  that  was  the  cause  of  it." 

"The  cause?  The  cause  was  , in  the  sin  of  the 
father  and  the  mother.  You  have  expiated  for  them, 
you  should  be  content." 

"  However,  they  accuse  me  of  having  killed  Ray- 
mond. It  is  very  cruel,  Rosalie." 

"  Killed  ?  "  said  the  wretch,  shivering,  "  killed  your 
brother?  Oh  that  is  horrible.  Who  told  you  so? 
What  have  you  said?" 

"  Nothing.  I  supported  all  in  silence,  hoping  that 
one  day  the  truth  might  be  known,  and  now  I  can 
say  nothing.  I  shall  continue  to  bear  it." 


258  UN    MYSTERE. 

Rosalie  let  her  he:id  fall  upon  her  breast  and 
seemed  to  be  thinking  profoundly.  All  at  once  she 
let  herself  slide  from  the  chair  and  fell  upon  her 
knees  before  Estelle. 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  she,  in  a  broken  voice,  "  par- 
don me  that  I  may  sleep;  that  I  may  have  some  rest. 
Nobody  but  you  could  pardon  me,  and  some  one 
must  pardon  me,  without  which  I  shall  lose  my 
soul.  Your  fiance  thought  it.  I  had  wished  to 
deceive  God,  I  who  never  deceived  anyone.  I  have 
not  said  in  confession  that  M.  de  Beaurand  had 
killed  himself.  I  thought  that  had  nothing  to  do 
with  the  affair.  I  wished  to  prevent  a  crime  and  I 
did  well.  My  confessor  said  so.  When  he  asked  me 
if  the  marriage  had  taken  place  I  told  him  that  I 
did  not  know.  That  was  a  horrible  lie  ;  but  then  I 
did  not  want  anybody  to  know  that  I  was  the  cause 
of  the  death  of  M.  de  Beaurand.  No.  I  could  not 
have  borne  that,  and  I  never  spoke  his  name.  And 
I  now  see  that  it  was  that  which  choked  me.  The 
dead  could  not  speak  and  there  you  only  were  left 
of  the  family.  Tell  me  that  you  will  pardon  me  for 
the  death  of  your  brother  and  I  will  believe  you." 

She  prostrated  herself  upon  the  floor  shrouded  in 
her  mantle  of  a  thousand  pleats. 

Estelle  felt  the  tears  of  pity  rise  to  her  eyes.  Why 
be  rigorous  with  that  poor,  failing  form  ?  The  fatal- 
ity that  had  weighed  so  heavily  upon  the  people  of 
the  family — could  it  not  be  pacified  by  a  word  of 
pardon  ? 

"  Rosalie,"  said  Estelle,  bending  over  to  touch  her 
with  her  hand,  "  in  the  name  of  the  dead,  I  forgive 
you." 


UN   HYSTERE.  259 

The  wretched  woman  would  rise,  but  she  had  not 
strength  enough.  Estelle  and  Benoist  took  her  by 
the  arm  and  seated  her  in  a  chair ;  she  could  hardly 
breathe. 

"  Thanks,"  said  she ;  "  thanks — I  will  sleep." 

She  closed  her  eyes  and  fell  back.  In  a  moment 
she  seemed  to  recover. 

"  Now,"  said  she,  "  I  can  confess  all.  I  can  say 
also  that  you  have  pardoned  me;  that  will  help 
me  in  my  confession.  I  thank  you  very  much." 

She  spoke  simply,  humbly,  as  she  might  have  done 
for  an  act  in  every -day  life. 

"Do  you  need  anything ?" asked  Estelle, surprised 
at  such  a  lack  of  conscience.  "  Have  you  any  in- 
come ? " 

"  My  poor  mistress  left  me  an  annuity,"  answered 
Rosalie ;  "  I  want  for  nothing  but  sleep  at  night. 
I  am  pleased  at  having  seen  you.  It  is  this  gentle- 
man whom  you  are  going  to  marry  ?  He  has  not  a 
bad  manner,  even  though  he  frightened  me  greatly. 
Oh,  a  fright !  " 

She  shivered  and  turned  her  eyes. 

"  It  was  because  of  fear  that  I  gave  him  the  let- 
ter. You  see,  for  the  rest,  Estelle,  I  am  tranquil.  I 
have  no  other  mortal  sins  upon  my  conscience.  I 
have  not  been  a  thief,  nor  arrogant,  nor  angry,  nor 
anything.  But  they  made  me  tell  a  falsehood.  Of 
myself  I  have  never  told  an  evil  thing,  except  in  the 
times  of  my  poor  mistress,  to  serve  her.  And  I  had 
but  one  fear,  and  that  was  of  not  telling  the  truth, 
and  I  have  lied  to  God.  When  that  gentleman  told 
me  that  I  was  a  liar,  I  lost  my  head.  I  became  en- 
raged. At  last,  it  is  finished.  God  will  pardon  me, 
will  He  not?" 


260  UN    MYSTERE. 

"  Yes,"  said  Estelle,  profoundly  affected  by  her 
frank  uprightness  and  for  the  confident  faith  of  the 
poor  creature.  He  will  pardon  you,  because  you 
have  always  intended  to  do  right,  even  when  I  was 
little.  Adieu,  Rosalie.  Be  in  peace." 

They  went  out  of  the  cottage ;  the  pure  air  strik- 
ing their  faces  gave  them  a  peculiar  sensation,  as 
though  they  had  been  for  a  long  time  shut  up  in  a 
cave,  damp  and  dark.  Instinctively  Benoist  con- 
ducted his  companion  toward  the  deserted  ramparts, 
where  they  seated  themselves  together  upon  the 
stone  bench,  where  he  had  read  the  letter. 

"  What  do  you  wish  to  do  now  ? "  said  he. 

Estelle  was  looking  away,  toward  the  east. 

"  Return  to  Paris,"  said  she,  "  and  go  to  the  tomb 
of  Raymond.  You  see,  my  friend,  I  have  not  enough 
tears  for  the  unfortunate.  My  heart  bleeds  when  I 
think  of  his  last  moments." 

"He  lived  happily,"  Benoist  remarked,  sadly. 

Estelle  said  nothing,  and  he  saw  that  she  was  cry- 
ing under  her  veil. 

"  Cry,  my  dear,"  said  he,  affectionately  ;  "  these 
tears  are  honest  and  pure,  fraternal  tears  which 
do  you  honor." 

She  understood  that  he  had  ceased  to  be  jealous. 

"  Then,"  said  she,  mastering  her  sorrow,  "  what 
are  you  going  to  do  ? " 

"  Accompany  you  to  Paris ;  then  I  shall  go  and 
see  my  mother." 

She  questioned  him  with  a  look,  and  contented 
herself  with  a  mute  response. 

"  And  you  ? "  questioned  he. 

"  As  for   me,  I  do  not  know  what.     Soumeray 


TIN  MTSTERE.  261 

frightens  me.  I  find  there  only  the  souvenirs  of  my 
childhood,  and  it  is  those  above  all  which  I  wish  to 
forget.  At  the  hotel  de  Beaurand  I  am  horrified,  I 
no  longer  have  an  asylum.  However,  it  will  take 
several  days  for  me  to  plan  my  life.  I  ask  of  you 
still  one  thing  more,  my  friend ;  with  all  the  fortune 
of  the  de  Beaurands,  I  would  erect  something  that 
Avould  be  of  use — a  hospital  or  an  asylum.  Rather 
an  asylum  for  those  who  have  neither  parents  nor 
friends.  It  shall  be  to  the  memory  of  Raymond 
and  of  his  father.  I  have  thought  of  it  for  a  long 
time,  and  at  present  I  am  resolved.  There  remains 
to  me  the  fortune  of  my  mother — the  only  one  to 
which  I  have  any  right." 

"  It  shall  be  done,"  responded  Benoist.  "  I  only 
ask  you  to  wait  for  a  short  time  that  I  may  see  my 
mother,  that  I  may  speak  with  her." 

Estelle  bowed  her  head. 

"  Very  well,"  said  she.  "  Your  mother  would  not 
have  me  for  a  daughter  if  she  knew  the  truth,  but 
nevertheless " 

"  My  mother  is  honest  and  kind,"  said  Benoist. 
"  I  have  great  faith  in  her  justice.  But  whether  she 
consents  or  not,  Estelle,  I  said  to  you,  you  are  mv 
wife." 

An  hour  afterwards,  they  departed  from  Mont- 
Saint-Michel. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

Upon  arriving  at  Paris  upon  the  morning  of  the 
next  day,  Benoist  assured  himself  first  that  Estelle 
arrived  home  safely,  then  about  ten  o'clock,  he  went 
to  the  office  of  Andre  Bolvin. 

The  young  deputy,  without  saying  a  word,  listened 
to  the  secret  confided  to  his  honor.  When  all  had 
been  explained  he  looked  at  his  guest. 

"  I  told  you  that  the  secret  was  relative  to  Mme 
de  Beaurand ;  only  the  history  is  a  little  rare  and 
curious.  The  misfortune  is  that  I  can  see  no  way  in 
which  Mme.  de  Beaurand  can  be  done  justice  by  the 
public." 

"  She  does  not  think  of  it,"  replied  Benoist,  coldly  ? 
"  she  is  above  public  opinion.  I  have  promised  to 
tell  you  the  truth  if  I  should  ever  succeed  in  finding 
it  out  myself.  I  have  succeeded,  and  moreover,  I 
wish  to  reveal  to  him  who  suspected  her  the  proofs 
of  her  innocence  which  are  the  most  striking." 

"  You  dislike  me,"  said  Bolvin,  with  a  shade  of 
regret,  "  and  I  believe  that  Mme.  de  Beaurand  will 
never  pardon  me,  nevertheless " 

"Mme.  de  Beaurand  always  pardons,"  said  Be- 
noist, rising. 

After  a  short  silence,  Bolvin  looked  at  his  guest 
openly. 

"  Will  you  tell  her  that  I  present  to  her  my  most 
humble  apology  and  that  if  she  will  herself  inform 
me  of  its  acceptance  I  shall  esteem  myself  happier 
than  I  have  merited  being  ? " 

263 


UN    MYSTERE.  263 

"  I  will  tell  her,"  replied  he. 

They  separated  and  Bolvin  upon  returning  to  his 
desk,  much  mortified  as  he  was  to  show  such  light- 
ness with  regard  to  so  grave  a  thing,  could  not  avoid 
affirming  to  himself  with  entirely  professional  satis- 
faction that  he  had  been  right  in  supposing  that  the 
real  cause  of  the  suicide  rested  in  Estelle. 

Benoist,  immediately  took  the  train,  in  order  to  ar- 
rive at  Pressoirs  that  afternoon.  His  mother,  whom 
he  had  informed  by  telegram,  awaited  him  with  a 
secret  impatience,  well  hidden  under  her  ordinary 
aspect  of  busy  serenity.  When  they  were  alone 
together  in  the  large  dining-room,  shaded  at  that 
season  by  the  tall  cytisus,  the  bunches  of  which  stopped 
the  least  air  from  entering  by  the  windows,  Theodore 
placed  his  chair  almost  against  that  of  Mme.  Benoist 
and  told  her  slowly  in  its  fullest  details  the  sad  his- 
tory of  that  tragical  family. 

She  listened  without  interruption  with  lips  pressed 
tightly  together.  Her  knitting  had  escaped  from 
her  diligent  hands  and  not  a  movement  in  her  be- 
trayed the  least  emotion.  When  the  story  was 
ended,  she  raised  toward  her  son  her  beautiful 
bright  eyes  veiled  with  a  slight  dampening  of  tears. 

"You  say  that  she  pardoned  that  wretched 
woman?"  said  she,  softly. 

"  Entirely,  and  with  good  will.  You  see,  mamma, 
you  can  not  know  how  good  she  is,  she  is  as  good  as 
you." 

Without  allowing  herself  to  be  moved  by  that 
tender  word,  she  began  her  kitting. 

"  She  wishes  to  found  an  asylum  with  the  prop- 
erty of  the  Beaurands  ? "  said  she,  at  last ;  "  well 


TIN    MYSTERE. 

that's  good,  she  is  right;  but  the  money  of  her  father 
— or  the  husband  of  her  mother,  I  should  say — what 
is  she  going  to  do  with  that  ? " 

"  I  do  not  know,  she  has  told  me  that  that  fortune 
is  odious  to  her." 

"  She  ought  to  return  it  to  the  family  of  that  gen- 
tleman. One  can  always  find  relations  nearer  or 
farther.  That  money  belongs  to  them,  it  does  not 
belong  to  her." 

"  You  see,  mamma,  that  she  has  had  the  same  idea 
with  regard  to  it." 

Mme.  Benoist  knitted  a  few  stitches  silently  and 
then  stopped. 

"  My  son,"  said  she,  "  I  understand  well  what  you 
have  told  me.  That  lady  is  very  good,  and  I  esteem 
her  very  much.  But,  in  any  event,  her  mother  was 
lacking  in  her  duties.  I  would  have  nothing  to  say 
against  having  her  for  a  daughter-in-law  if  there  was 
nothing  to  be  said  about  her  family.  You  see,  one 
might  learn  no  matter  what  about  General  de 
Beaurand;  but  with  her,  it  is  another  thing;  I  had 
not  expected  that,  my  child." 

"  Mother,"  said  the  young  man,  with  extreme  soft- 
ness, "she  is  innocent." 

"  I  did  not  say  she  was  not ;  but  all  the  same  that 
torments  me  much,  very  much,  mv  son." 

"  Mamma,"  said  he,  with  a  caressing  inflection, 
which  deprived  his  words  of  the  least  appearance  of 
reproach,  "  it  is  you  who  taught  me  my  duty  towards 
her  when  I  was  unjust  and  prejudiced." 

u  Be  still,"  said  Mme.  Benoist,  softly  ;  "  I  know  it." 

The  wind  pushed  against  the  windows  the  bunches 
of  the  cy  tisus,  which  seemed  to  ask  to  enter ;  a  little 


UN   MY8TERE.  265 

bird  struck  its  wings  against  one  of  the  window- 
panes,  which  gave  forth  a  sharp  sound,  and  it  perched 
upon  a  branch,  singing. 

"  Mother,"  said  Benoist,  "  she  is  alone.  Alone  in 
the  world  with  her  dead,  in  a  house  full  of  distress- 
ing remembrances.  And,  notwithstanding  all  the 
fortune  which  remains  to  her,  she  has  no  place  to 

go." 

The  old  lady,  with  a  sign  of  her  head,  indicated 
that  she  understood. 

"  She  has  no  one  but  me  in  the  world,  mamma ;  no 
one  but  me  to  love  her  and  console  her.  I  had 
thought  that  she  had  us  two.  I  had  thought  that 
you  would  be  to  her  a  mother,  such  as  she  never  had. 
She  loves  you  very  much.  She  is  full  of  respect  and 
kindness.  If  you  will  not  consent  to  have  her  for  a 
daughter  I  believe  that  she  will  die  of  grief  and  sor- 
row; but  she  would  not  have  for  you  one  word  of 
reproach.  She  is  so  good." 

"  "Would  you  blame  me,"  said  Mme.  Benoist,  look- 
ing at  him  from  the  bottom  of  her  soul. 

"  I  would  suffer  much,  mother — more  than  I  can 
tell ;  for  I  love  her  as  my  father  loved  you ;  but  I 
would  not  blame  you,  since  it  would  be  for  the 
honor  of  the  family." 

"  "Would  that  stain  be  nothing  to  you  ? "  asked  the 
old  lady,  in  a  severe  tone. 

"  Nothing,  because  Estelle  has  none  from  her 
mother.  From  her  head  to  her  feet,  soul  included, 
she  is  a  Beaurand,  and  the  Beaurands  were  honor 
itself." 

Mme.  Benoist  did  not  answer  and  remained 
thoughtful. 


266  UN  MYSTERE. 

The  little  bird  had  ceased  to  sing ;  obstinately  it 
came  to  the  window,  which  it  struck  with  blows, 
redoubled,  of  beak  and  wing,  before  the  obstacle  it 
recoiled,  frightened. 

Mine.  Benoist  arose,  opened  the  window  wide, 
waited  an  instant  to  see  if  ifc  would  return ;  then 
seeing  that  it  had  gone  away,  looked  outside. 

Under  the  arch  of  the  cytisus  could  be  seen  upon 
the  edge  of  the  horizon  the  valley  smoking  under 
the  sun. 

The  heated  earth,  the  roses  in  bloom,  the  grass 
ready  to  be  mowed,  showed  an  abundance  of  vigor 
and  of  the  life  which  filled  her  aged  heart.  She 
thought  of  her  young  years,  of  the  love  which  she 
had  for  her  husband,  of  the  joys  which  her  son,  de- 
voted almost  to  sacrifice,  had  brought  to  her. 

Without  a  sound  she  left  the  dining-room,  while 
Theodore,  with  his  elbows  upon  the  table,  thought 
with  a  tenderness  full  of  profound  pity  of  Estelle, 
alone  in  her  mansion,  always  alone ;  above  all,  alone, 
since  his  mother  would  not  consent  to  accept  her  as 
a  daughter. 

The  door  opened  in  a  short  time,  and  Mme. 
Benoist  returned.  She  had  taken  off  her  bonnet  of 
linen  and  put  on  the  lace  hat  reserved  for  Sunday 
mass.  Dressed  in  a  gown  and  a  mantle  of  rich  black 
silk,  she  was  no  longer  the  vintner  of  Pressoirs,  but  a 
beautiful  old  lady  of  the  province. 

"  Let  us  go  and  find  her,"  said  she  to  her  son,  who 
took  her  arm. 

After  a  visit  to  the  tomb  of  the  de  Beaurands, 
which  she  had  covered  with  flowers,  Estelle  returned 
to  the  hotel.  She  looked  at  it  now  as  a  sort  of 


UN   MYSTEKE.  267 

curiosity,  as  though  it  were  a  strange  home  to  which 
she  had  been  called  for  a  moment,  and  to  which  she 
should  no  longer  return. 

She  occupied  the  afternoon  in  seeking,  among 
the  things  which  belonged  to  her,  those  which  were 
dear,  that  she  might  take  them  away,  and  that  she 
might  arrange  all  the  rest  for  the  numerous  personnel 
of  the  large  house.  After  a  short  dinner,  she  called 
the  domestics  to  the  office,  and  went  over  alone,  in 
the  light  of  the  descending  day,  the  many  rooms  of 
the  rez-de-chaussee. 

Many  remembrances  returned  to  her.  Slowly, 
often  stopping,  Estelle  re-lived  the  thirteen  months 
which  she  had  just  passed.  All  her  moral  existence 
was  enclosed  there.  She  separated  herself  from 
them  without  regret,  having  suffered  too  much  to 
not  desire  to  forget ;  the  future  would  be  the  part 
of  the  good  and  the  bad  hours. 

Upon  the  threshold  of  Raymond's  room  she  hesi- 
tated. Should  she  awaken  the  now  sleeping  impres- 
sions at  the  risk  of  opening  the  wounds  of  her  heart  ? 
Duty  commanded,  however,  that  she  destroy  all  the 
papers  of  Raymond  remaining  upon  his  desk,  and 
that  no  hand  should  touch  them*  She  entered. 

Across  the  threshold,  a  very  mysterious  sentiment 
without  bitterness  brought  tears  to  her  eyes ;  but  she 
still  preserved  control  of  herself.  The  large  room 
was  already  darkened ;  upon  the  mantel  the  can- 
delabra was  filled  with  candles.  Slowly,  as  with 
respect,  but  with  a  firm  hand,  Estelle  lighted  them 
all,  threw  a  burning  paper  into  the  fire-place,  and 
commenced  her  holy  work. 

One  after  the  other  she  opened  the  drawers  of  the 


268  UN   MTSTERE. 

writing-desk,  and  threw  into  the  flames  all  that  they 
contained,  except  the  cross  of  the  General  and  the 
military  medallion  of  Raymond,  which  she  placed 
apart.  Letters  and  diplomas  burned  together,  all 
that  had  been  dear  or  disliked,  all  that  any  profane 
eye  should  not  see. 

When  the  last  spark  had  ceased  to  run  in  the 
blackened  paper,  Estelle  arose,  took  a  few  steps  for- 
ward, and  looked  at  the  portrait  of  the  General. 

A  sad  and  sweet  emotion  overcame  her ;  her  hands 
were  clasped  before  her,  and  her  eyes  sought,  in  the 
depths  of  the  eyes  of  the  portrait,  a  response  to  her 
mute  question. 

She  had  not  known  a  father ;  that  word,  for  her, 
void  of  sense,  had  taken  a  great  importance  on  the 
lips  of  Raymond.  It  was  a  struggle  for  her  to 
understand  the  honor  which  he  bore  for  his  dead 
father.  By  respect  for  the  memory  of  the  General, 
by  affection  for  his  son,  she  had  religiously  collected 
all  that  he  had  communicated  to  her  during  the  time 
of  their  courtship. 

And  that  was  all  that  she  knew  of  her  father. 

"  My  father,"  said  she  to  him,  "  would  you  have 
loved  me  ? " 

It  seemed  to  her  that  at  that  thought  the  proud 
and  soft  eyes  of  the  portrait,  so  like  her  own,  re- 
proached her  for  having  questioned  it.  "  It  was  upon 
them  that  Raymond  fixed  his  last  look,"  thought 
she,  suddenly.  "  What  did  they  say  to  him  ? " 

Upon  the  remembrance  of  that  tragical  day,  she 
shuddered.  The  place  where  the  blood  had  run, 
staining  his  room,  was  still  marked  upon  the  newly- 
scraped  floor.  Estelle  sought  for  it  with  her  eyes, 


UN    1IYSTERE.  269 

and  kneeled  upon  it,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  portrait 
of  the  General. 

"  My  father,"  said  she,  "  my  dear  father,  I  would 
have  loved  you  much." 

She  burst  into  tears  and  gave  way  under  her 
broken  heart.  Too  many  sorrows,  too  many 
thoughts  weighed  upon  her  innocent  youth  ;  the 
weight  which  was  so  heavy  upon  her  shoulders, 
would  it  never  be  removed  by  a  pitying  hand  ?  Now 
she  realized  the  weight  of  the  shame  and  the  blood. 

A  sound  of  voices  near  the  door  made  her  rise 
quickly.  Some  one  knocked.  Drying  her  tear- 
stained  face,  she  told  them  to  enter. 

Mme.  Benoist  appeared  upon  the  threshold,  fol- 
lowed immediately  by  her  son,  whose  noble  figure 
Estelle  perceived  in  the  shade.  At  the  sight  of  that 
little  woman  in  black,  she  felt  her  mortal  load  to  fly 
away,  as  though  it  had  wings.  The  apparition  of  an 
angel  dressed  in  glory  could  not  have  appeared  more 
luminous  to  her. 

"  My  daughter,"  said  Mme.  Benoist,  "  will  you 
come  with  us  ? " 

She  fell  into  the  arms  that  were  opened  to  her. 


FINIS. 


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